by Sharon Lee
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
“Shan’s work has taken no damage, nor have you.”
Anthora sat back in her chair. The grey-and-white kitten somebody had named Fondi looked up expectantly from his curl by her feet.
“It is precisely as if you had experienced a nightmare, or ridden a fatal sim. You were naturally distressed and unsettled, but in the waking world you have taken no hurt.”
“The link between Miri and I . . .”
“Functioned precisely as it ought.” That was Ren Zel, sitting next to his lifemate in the double chair. “If there was error, it is shared among us, for believing that such a force, once activated, could be circumvented.”
He bent down to pick up Fondi, placed him on Anthora’s lap and looked up with a slight smile.
“I accept the greater part of the error, for I have on several occasions remarked how like your link is to the other . . . strands of event that I perceive. Neither is to be tampered with, except at great peril.”
Miri shivered.
Anthora was only one of the three most powerful dramliz—that was Liaden for wizards, or maybe witches—of the current and two preceding generations. She was a Healer, like her brother Shan. Unlike him, she also held a full hand of weird abilities, among them telepathy, telekinesis, and clairvoyance.
Anthora was unsettling enough, but her lifemate was downright terrifying.
Ren Zel, sweet-tempered, calm, rational Ren Zel, could see—could manipulate—what he explained as “the lines that hold everything together,” in which “everything” equaled “the universe.”
When she’d realized that meant he could unmake the universe as easy as untying the bow on a birthday present, Miri had seriously weighed whether to shoot him dead on the spot. It was a thought that occasionally revisited her, and it always dismayed her, not the least because she happened to like Ren Zel.
To hear that the link that bound her and Val Con was made of the same material as the bindings of the universe—that didn’t surprise her as much as it should have, given this morning’s fiasco.
All that, though, was secondary to the discussion, which was what to do with Rys’s dream.
She nodded toward Anthora.
“If the dream Rys made is only a dream, and has no power in the waking world, that means it can’t be used, as we had hoped, to free the agents we hold.”
Anthora frowned, wrinkling her nose. She looked down at the kitten in her lap, and tickled him under his chin, to the accompaniment of loud, gravelly purrs.
“I would not dismiss Rys’s work out of hand,” she said slowly. “It seems to me, when I gaze upon one of those whom the delm has taken under their wing, that I am seeing the mind of one who is caught in an intense state of dreaming.” She glanced to Ren Zel.
“Does it seem so to you, Beloved?”
He frowned in his turn, eyes narrowed as if he were indeed seeing into the mind of one of the agents.
“My Sight is not so deep as yours,” he said at last. “I would agree that they dream, though with . . . reinforcement . . .” He turned his empty hands palms-up in a gesture in which Miri had no trouble reading frustration. “I have no words.”
“You would say that training is merely a dream-state?” Val Con demanded, his voice betraying disbelief.
“No,” Ren Zel answered. “Not merely a dream-state. A dream-state multiplied by many factors of twelve, and lashed into place—” Again, he showed his palms. “Forgive me; reinforcement is inadequate, and yet it is the word available.”
“The dramliz are often at a loss for words when attempting to explain that which only we can see,” Anthora told him. “We use metaphor, and approximations, and occasionally, we say, trust me.”
She turned her attention to Val Con.
“In the case, reinforcement is a good approximation. The state in which the agents live and function is potent. There were, as we know, several steps necessary in order to produce an agent. First, there are the tangible tortures which are applied during training. Once the proto-agent is in a malleable state—confused, in pain, and frightened—someone with the necessary skill binds them to an . . . an alternate reality—”
“To a lie,” Ren Zel said, his normally cool voice hot with anger.
“A lie, yes; very apt, Beloved. I very much fear that this someone must be one of the dramliz, though I cannot deduce whether she was herself corrupted, or came willing to the work.” She moved the hand not occupied with kitten in a broad sign for wrong course.
“I diverge from the topic, forgive me. The dramliza’s part in this process would be to bind into the frightened and abused mind of the trainee the belief that she joined the plan willingly, that she accepts the teachings of the DOI, and that she performs with her whole heart every assignment and atrocity demanded of her.”
“It is the lie that they chose which keeps them bound into the dream, and to the Department.”
“This,” Ren Zel continued when Anthora fell silent, “is where we see Rys’s genius. He has understood that one may be bound unwilling, and that, at the core of each agent, damaged and dreaming as they are, is the last shred of the person they had been prior to their acquisition. He has understood that there is a stress point—a particular, painful, and provocative moment where real choice is not only possible, it is necessary.”
“The trigger must resonate strongly,” Anthora added. “As with Rys, who refused to oversee the wholesale slaughter of children.”
Miri turned to Val Con. “That’s different than how it was for you.”
“Yes,” Anthora said, before Val Con could answer. “And also no. When the two of you—each one half of a wizard’s match, and neither whole without the other—when the two of you met, what happened?”
Miri laughed.
“We ran from people who were chasing us, fought with each other, took up with Edger, interfered with an Yxtrang recovery raid, and about got killed.”
“All of that,” Val Con said, frowning, “but, in terms of choice . . . I chose to ignore the Loop. Instead of killing you, I chose to tell you the truth. I chose to tell you my name; I chose to take you with me—”
“So I could have a new name, new papers, and a new face—I remember.”
“Yes. And I continued to make you a priority, refusing to abandon you, or murder you, or betray you. Again and again, I chose to tell you as much of the truth as was available to me . . .” He paused and extended a hand. Miri took it.
“Until,” he said slowly, “the Loop—the program—concluded that I was fatally compromised.”
“Which is when it told you that you were dead,” Miri finished, squeezing his fingers. “I remember that, too.”
“Yes . . .” He looked to Anthora.
“This dream—made with Old Tech—plucked that from my memory, and wove it into a choice unique to me. It gave me a target . . .” Miri was holding his hand; he knew it had been a dream, though a very powerful one, and still he shivered with horror.
“My target was Miri.”
Anthora’s mouth thinned, but she asked the question calmly.
“And the choice?”
He took a hard breath, his grip on Miri’s hand painfully tight.
“The choice was . . . difficult, because I very nearly did not recognize her.”
“No worries,” Miri murmured. “You recognized me in time.”
“A heartbeat longer . . .”
“Near is not a hit,” Anthora said sharply. “Which you know very well, Val Con-brother!”
Val Con stiffened, then gave her a small, seated bow, which she acknowledged with a bare inclination of her head. It looked to Miri like she was shivering, too—and it must’ve looked that way to Ren Zel, because he moved closer to her on the chair and put his hand on her thigh.
“The choice must be terrible,” he said slowly, meeting Miri’s eyes. “The effort of will required to assert that I do not allow cannot be less than .
. . terrific. Nothing less than a horrific choice can be sufficient to shatter the restraints and the dream-state.”
Anthora sighed, and leaned against her lifemate’s shoulder even as she tucked both hands around the kitten.
“Rys has been very brave, and very clever. He has shown us the way, but we do not want a sim for this—most especially, I think, we do not want a sim created with the Old Technology. At least one of those held in the delms’ care is an expert in such technologies, and I would not willingly place a tool in her hand.”
“Surely,” Ren Zel murmured, “between you and I and Master Healer Mithin, we can create a scenario, and a choice targeted at one heart alone.”
“I believe that we can,” Anthora said solemnly. “We must speak with Master Mithin and take her counsel.”
“Master Mithin,” Val Con said, “awaits the Delm’s Word so that she may put those in our care beyond further anguish.”
“Assuredly, then, we must speak with her,” Ren Zel said, and hesitated, before adding, “I ask.”
“Ask,” Miri told him.
“Yes. The delm understands that we may well, in our efforts, achieve only what Master Mithin can bring about this afternoon, without even the speaking of a word.”
Val Con bowed his head. “This may, indeed, be an overstep. We may be guilty of inflicting more pain than necessary, and for an identical outcome. The only thing that makes the course we undertake acceptable is that we offer the chance that some of them may survive.”
“I understand,” Ren Zel said, and Anthora added, “We will do our best.”
“We are confident of that,” Val Con said, and stood, indicating the end of the meeting.
The rest of them got to their feet, as well. Anthora handed the kitten to Miri before turning toward the door, with Val Con beside her.
“Hey!” Miri muttered, as Fondi extended sharp, kitten claws, and began to wriggle energetically.
“Here,” Ren Zel said, holding out his hands. “If we put him on his own feet, he will cease to be a menace.”
“I fear I don’t have the touch,” Miri said, letting him take Fondi and place him on the floor.
“Kittens are easily offended,” Ren Zel said, straightening. “Miri.”
She frowned at him. “Yes?”
“You and I are of one mind in this matter of the Lines. It is far too much power for one man to hold. I would only ask that you allow me to tell you, when the time has come for you to kill me. May we make that agreement, between us?”
She considered him: eyes calm, face earnest, and not looking particularly suicidal.
“Have you Seen something?”
He moved his shoulders. “Perhaps I have, but, if so, even I am not certain, yet, of its shape.”
Somehow, that soothed her more than a detailed list of the day, time and location of his upcoming murder would have done. She nodded.
“We have an agreement,” she said, and he smiled.
“You actually made money from a rug shop in your old port?” Skene asked.
Given the day’s business—or, rather, lack of business—it was, Quin reflected, a fair question.
“You must remember that Grandfather’s rug shop at Solcintra had built its client list over fifty local years,” Quin told her.
“Don’t think I knew it to remember it,” she said. “So, how’d he build up bidness on day one—or, say, day two, since we can maybe figure he did part o’day one like we did, with checking the systems and fine-tuning the lights an’ all.”
Quin leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest, and frowned.
“He had business from the first,” he said slowly, though he had been told the story of how Grandfather had found his trade many times.
“My great-aunt, who had been the clan’s elder Master Trader, brought him rugs to sell on commission—that was how he began. When he had finished with his schooling, he sold rugs at Korval’s booth at the port—much as we are doing . . .” He saw her grin, and shook his head, his mouth twisting into an unwilling answering grin.
“Much as we are trying to do. When he had experience, and people knew his face, he purchased his own inventory, and opened the shop. My great-grandmother, who was delm at the time, bought one of his carpets and had it installed in one of the public rooms at Jelaza Kazone. When her guests admired it, she had no hesitation in telling them where she had purchased it. There were those who came to look at the shop, and those who came to purchase just what Korval had—because there were always those—and there were a small number who came and looked, and talked, and who came back later with a special request, or who sent someone his way.”
Skene shook her head.
“You was a big snowball on the old world, hey?”
He frowned, then grinned again.
“Clan Korval was, yes. I don’t believe that Grandfather ever thought of himself as a big snowball.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, maybe,” she said, and looked up, her hand dropping to her belt, as the door opened, and two Liadens in ship livery entered the shop, weapons showing on their belts.
The woman wore a trader’s ring—respectably garnet. The man had a security stripe on his collar.
Quin walked forward to meet them gently, not a hurrying, hungry shopkeeper, but a man who was pleased to welcome guests into his home. So had Luken always approached his customers.
“Trader, welcome,” he said when he had achieved a proper distance. “I am Quin yos’Phelium. How may I serve you today?”
The trader bowed as one who was pleased to accept service.
“May I ask, young sir, if you are in fact Quin yos’Phelium Clan Korval, heir to Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval?”
“Trader, I am,” he said, bowing acknowledgment. “I fear you have the advantage of me. May I know your name?”
“You may—indeed, you must.” She bowed once more . . . as one seeking Balance.
An alarm bell, sounding very much like the collision warning from the sim he and Padi had trained on, back at Runig’s Rock, went off inside of Quin’s head.
“I am,” the trader announced, “Beslin vin’Tenzing Clan Omterth. When Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval fired upon Solcintra City, he deprived Clan Omterth of one of its precious children: Kyr Nin vin’Tenzing, my heir. I hereby deprive Pat Rin yos’Phelium of his heir, in full and equal Balance.”
Her hand dropped to her gun.
A shot cracked.
Trader vin’Tenzing cried out and spun, crumpling to the floor, even as Quin dove, giving Skene room to work, his hideaway leaping into his hand as he rolled. He came to his knees, gun leveled . . .
The security officer was facing Skene over her weapon, his hands held away from his body, palms out and showing empty.
“Sir, please say to your guard that I would place my weapon in her care, and go to the trader.”
“Skene, he says he wants to give you his gun and tend to the woman who is down,” Quin translated.
“Tell him to put the gun on the floor and shove it over to you,” she said, her voice calm and businesslike. “Then you find out for me does he have any other toys. After we know he’s clean, he can check on his boss.”
He translated that, too. The security officer surrendered his gun, submitted to being patted down, and did not object when Quin confiscated his boot knife.
“You may see to your trader,” Quin said, stepping back. He was starting to shake, he noted distantly. There was blood on the trader’s jacket; she was, he saw with a jolt of pure relief, breathing.
“Port Security’ll be here in a sec,” Skene told him. “I hit the panic button when she started in with the speechifying.”
“Why?” he asked her.
She shrugged.
“Looked like a desperate woman to me, and her backup wasn’t happy.” She threw him a sharp look. “You okay, Quin?”
“I’m a little”—he reached for the word Villy used—“shook.”
The security man was kneeling a
t the fallen woman’s side. He looked up at Quin. “Please, is there a first aid kit?”
“Port Security has been summoned,” he said. “They will have—”
The door slammed open, bell screaming protest at rough usage.
“Security! Everybody freeze!” a big voice bellowed in Terran. Immediately after came a woman’s cultured voice, speaking Liaden: “Port Security arrives. Everyone stand where you are.”
Rys had found a packet of dried red beans, and another of rice, which he would give to Jin, thus insuring that the kompani continued to eat. He had also found a fleece shawl that folded into a pouch no bigger than his hand, which he would give to Silain. He had first thought of it for Droi, but it was risky to bring Droi things she had not asked for, and he had no wish to try her patience further. Best that he and she were friends. He thought that: friends. By Bedel tradition, they were brother and sister, a relationship predicated upon their membership in the same kompani, rather than any genetic connection. By Bedel tradition, brothers and sisters might take comfort from each other, even, as he and Droi had done, make a child. Indeed, it was preferred that those of the kompani seek comfort within the kompani, leaving Those Others, the gadje, to themselves.
Bedel tradition did allow one of the kompani to make a bond of brother- or sisterhood with those who were not of the kompani. He was not the only one of their group to have done so—nor even the only one of their group to have formed a kin-bond with one of Korval, whom the Bedel called the People of the Tree. Silain’s apprentice, young Kezzi, had accepted as her brother Syl Vor yos’Galan Clan Korval. Kezzi, destined to be luthia, benefited by learning that the Bedel, while naturally superior to all gadje, were not the only race, nor Bedel tradition, the only tradition.
The gods alone knew what Syl Vor learned from the Bedel, but the son of a House which routinely sent its children to the Scouts could only benefit from early exposure to another culture.
Rys’s meandering thoughts brought him back to his brother, who had been a Scout, and who had expressed a desire for a local Surebleak vintage.
Rys was many years from the vineyard, though wine must run in his blood, so long had his clan tended the vines. He looked about him, taking note of his location, and turned to cross the busy street.