Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Yes, of course. Must remember to send the port master a set of crystal. Stupid Shan. Doesn't know his own strength.

  Sav Rid Olanek. Gods, to have his hands about Sav Rid Olanek's slim throat…

  And then? He jeered at himself, drinking again. The flaming ice of Korval rage stirred behind the barriers he had built about it. And then he would pay balance with his life! Shall he threaten lady, fosterson, ship?

  Priscilla. That punishing outage of self-hate, terror, and confusion. A trace effect of the drug? Or something more permanent? Lina would know.

  He stopped himself on the way to the comm. Lina would know, sooner or later. And when she knew, so would Shan yos'Galan. He would do nothing now but distract her from an essential task.

  "Go to bed, Shan," he told himself.

  But he tarried, sipping his drink, staring sightlessly at the tapestry above the bar.

  When the annunciator chimed, he jumped.

  "Come!" he called.

  Mr. dea'Gauss entered, papers rustling in hand, face full of import. It was indicative of his weariness or the value of his news that he broke at once into speech, neglecting even his bow.

  "Your Lordship, I have received the report of Ms. Veltrad, whom you sent to Sintia on the matter of Lady Mendoza. It is—"

  "No!"

  Mr. dea'Gauss blinked. "I beg your Lordship's pardon?"

  "I said," Shan explained, voice thin with strain, "no. No, I do not wish to hear Ximena's report. No, I do not wish to hear the name of the crime Priscilla is supposed to have committed. No, I do not wish to find the report on my screen next on-shift. No, I do not want Ximena to call or visit so that she may tell me in her own voice what she has reported. No."

  Mr. dea'Gauss took stock. Shan stood near the center of the room, holding a quarter-full glass in his bandaged hand, the blood-stained ruff falling gracefully about taut knuckles. The stark brown face might have been hewn from strellwood, and there was a slightly mad look around the silver eyes.

  "The report from Sintia," he began again, "indicates that—"

  "No!" Shan was across the room in a blur, was towering over Mr. dea'Gauss, his face set in cold fury, the syllables of the High Tongue crackling. "I do not hear you! Go."

  Mr. dea'Gauss gave no ground. He had seen this before—from Er Thorn yos'Galan. The proper answer had never included giving ground.

  He drew himself up and took a firmer grip on his papers. "Will you hear it from me? Or from your First Speaker? It is a matter of ship's debt. The captain's attention is required."

  For perhaps a heartbeat Shan was utterly still. He turned, went to his desk and sat, placing the glass precisely aside.

  "yos'Galan hears," he said in the High Tongue, Tho-delm to hireling.

  Mr. dea'Gauss walked forward. He was not waved carelessly to a chair. Shan's face was expressionless, waiting. Mr. dea'Gauss bowed.

  "Thodelm, it becomes my knowledge through the words of Ximena Veltrad, who was offered coin in return for verified truth, that Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was ostracized from her world for the crime called 'blasphemy' ten Standard Years gone by. The details of this crime are covered most fully by Ms. Veltrad's report. I wished only to assure you at this present that Sintia's melant'i suffers greatly by the reported incident. Lady Mendoza's actions were, as always, above reproach."

  "And yet someone reproached her. Strongly." The High Tongue exuded no warmth. "You will explain this paradox."

  "Yes, Thodelm. I am not conversant with the depth of the situation reported by Ms. Veltrad. My understanding is that Lady Mendoza, as an apprentice in Circle House—what is called there a 'Maiden' or novice priestess—called recriminations upon herself for an act of heroism. I confess that I do not understand why the saving of three lives should have caused these recriminations. Ms. Veltrad's report indicates doctrinal, rather than rational, causes. In any wise, Lady Mendoza was called before the masters of the craft and offered a chance to disown her act and be properly chastised. Lady Mendoza refused to recant. She was then stripped of her goods and her title, and banned from the craft. In order to keep face, her House cast her forth as well." Mr. dea'Gauss paused, considering the icy eyes. "Politics, Thodelm. Not balance."

  "So." Shan drank the rest of the brandy slowly, then replaced the glass. "yos'Galan has heard. You will leave the report with me. Have you anything else that I must hear at this present?"

  "No, Thodelm."

  "Good. You are dismissed."

  Korval’s man of business bowed, then turned away.

  "Mr. dea'Gauss."

  He turned back. “Thodelm?"

  Shan smiled wearily, his bandaged hand resting on Ximena's report. "Sleep well, sir. And thank you."

  Mr. dea'Gauss felt absurd relief as his lips bent in reply. "Sleep well, your Lordship. You are quite welcome."

  SHIPYEAR 65

  TRIPDAY 181

  THIRD SHIFT

  16.00 HOURS

  Shan lifted his head, groping after the sound. Surely… Ah. The door chime.

  "Come."

  The door parted, and she entered, slight and small, her face Liaden gold. "Old friend."

  "Lina." Memory returned with a force that shuddered pain through his misused head, and he was half out of the chair. "Priscilla—"

  "Resting. And well." Her small hands flickered, soothing. He sank back as she came around the desk. "More—she is herself. We spoke. She is rational; she knows what has transpired; she knows that necessity existed and that she acted as best she might." Lina sighed. "Much of the confusion you reported must be counted an effect of the drug—and of despair. Life has taught her to expect neither rescue from trouble nor surcease from pain. Healing had gone far, but that lesson is not easy to unlearn."

  Shan had closed his eyes. Now he opened them, and Lina felt shock at the depth of weariness there. "She'll be all right," he murmured, his beautiful voice blurred and uneven. "Thank you, Lina, for coming to tell me. This is your rest shift, isn't it?"

  "And yours, as well," she said briskly. "Priscilla sent me to make sure you slept. You were angry, she said, and hurt."

  He rubbed his forehead absently. "Stupid. Trying to scan the whole planet…" He tapped a sheaf of papers. "Had to read Ximena's report. Mr. dea'Gauss… An act of heroism. She'll have to stop that, Lina. Get herself hurt. Saves three lives, using some sort of thing she wasn't taught yet. But she said the old soul—give 'em old souls, the Initiates, with the old names attached. Priscilla's soul was named Moonhawk. Very powerful lady. Much respected. Said the old soul had done it, for the glory of the Goddess and—and… who knows? Long and short, she gets thrown out. All very well and good to have a tame dramliza on your hands, but when she starts demanding her due, that's dangerous."

  Lina frowned, noting the empty glass by his hand. "Is Priscilla a wizard, Shan?"

  "Very good chance. Should see her—no, I hope you don't see her. Does things above and beyond us mere Healers. Got a definite flair…" He rubbed at his face again. "Gods, gods, she's strong."

  She leaned forward and stroked the warm, thick hair. "Shan. Come to bed."

  He blinked at her. "Bed?"

  "You are tired. You must rest, let yourself heal. How much brandy have you had?"

  "Half a beakful," he muttered, and then grinned. "But it's quite a beak, eh?"

  She laughed, between frustration and relief. "Come to bed, denubia." She grabbed the unbandaged hand and tugged. "Shan, have pity! I have promised my cha'leket to see you resting. Would you have me turn my face from her need?"

  "Cha'leket?"

  "Priscilla herself named me sister. I find my heart agrees. Will you come to bed?"

  "Since you ask so nicely. Not likely to do you much good though, my precious." He wobbled to his feet but would not lean his weight upon her. Unsteadily, he laid his hand against the inner door.

  She coaxed him to lie flat, unsealed the tight dress shirt, then sat stroking his hair and murmuring, weaving a net of warm comfort and loading it with the
desire to sleep deeply and long.

  After a time his eyes closed, his breathing lengthened.

  Lina continued her weaving and stroking until she sensed that he had reached the first depths, where prime healing begins. She slid from the bed and spread the coverlet gently over him, dimmed the lights, and disarmed the alarm. Kayzin had agreed that the captain's rest should not be interrupted untimely.

  Affairs ordered to her satisfaction, Lina bent and stroked his cheek. "Sleep well, old friend." And then she was gone.

  CROWN CITY, THEOPHOLIS

  JUDGE'S HOUR

  The cab pulled to the edge of the pedstrip and stopped. The driver looked over his shoulder and said something in a barbaric garble. Sav Rid stared at him coldly.

  "The vehicle can go no farther," the driver announced in abrupt Trade. "Pedestrian traffic only inside the port. The fare's fivebit."

  Sav Rid extended the proper coin silently and exited the cab. Behind him the driver spat between his teeth and muttered, "Louse!" But the action was beneath Sav Rid's notice, the single word in Terran.

  He walked cautiously through the crowded port, intensely aware of his lack of guard. Dagmar Collier had not been at the rendezvous point this morning. He wondered what might have happened to the creature, then put the thought away with an impatient shrug. Who, after all, really cared? If Dagmar Collier chose to jump ship before the run was through, that was certainly its own affair. Daxflan would make good use of the unclaimed wages.

  A man was coming purposefully toward him down the pedstrip: older, with more gray than black in his thinning hair. Sav Rid froze.

  His Delm continued briskly forward, then stopped at the proper distance and inclined his head. "Kinsman. I give you good day."

  He managed a bow. "As I give you good day, kinsman and Delm. It surprises me to find you here, so far from home and House."

  "No more," the elder said dryly, "than it surprises me to find you here, when the port master reports Daxflan absent."

  "We hold orbit about the fourth planet out, my Delm. It has been found more—convenient—to use another vessel to bring goods from Daxflan to prime orbit."

  "Indeed." Taam Olanek extended an arm, smiling coolly. "Walk with me, I beg you. I am curious about this so convenient method. Have you subcontracted your cargoes to others, Sav Rid?"

  They walked a few paces in silence.

  "It became necessary," Sav Rid murmured, "for Daxflan to purchase a subsidiary vessel to act as shuttle from Daxflan to berth. The method is quite simple, sir, and serves us well."

  "Am I to understand," Plemia demanded, "that you have made Daxflan, in essence, a warehouse?"

  "Exactly so," Sav Rid said, pleased.

  His Delm drew breath. "I see. Forgive my question, kinsman, but such a purchase as a trading vessel… It seems that I surely would have noted the passage of a so large a voucher across my desk. Yet I recall nothing."

  Sav Rid smiled, triumphantly oblivious to the worry in the other's face. "It was a small matter, sir; there was no need to resort to credit vouchers. We paid cash."

  "Cash," Plemia repeated tonelessly. He was silent a moment or two as they walked. Then he straightened abruptly, renewing his grip on Sav Rid's arm. "It only now returns to me, kinsman—that matter of which I wished to speak. I have heard from the port master that a member of your crew—one Dagmar Collier—has been found dead in the city outside the port."

  "So, that is what became of it," Sav Rid said calmly. "I had wondered. Well, it always had a quarrelsome nature."

  "Had she?" Taam asked softly around the sudden ice in his throat. "And how long had Dagmar Collier served you, kinsman?"

  Sav Rid moved his shoulders. 'Two or three trips, I believe."

  "Ah." Taam stopped, whirling on the other. "Sav Rid, a woman who has been in your service these four years has died! Do you not at least go to the precinct house and claim the body, that it might be sent properly to her kin?"

  There was honest puzzlement in the young face. "No, why should I? I doubt it had kin. It was Terran, you see," he explained more fully in the face of his Delm's further silence.

  "Terrans are not all kinless folk, Sav Rid," Taam murmured, his eyes filling as pity unexpectedly overtook dread. 'They are people, even as we are." Still there was only puzzled confusion in the eyes watching his. He touched the smooth cheek gently. "And if they were not, my child, we are people. It is our burden and our pride to behave with honor, always."

  "Yes, surely. But a Terran, sir…"

  "Never mind, child. It will be attended to." He took Sav Rid's arm again and resumed the walk. "I hear from Korval that you and young Shan attempt to balance some puppy accounts. Are you not too old for such mischief, Sav Rid?"

  The arm in his had stiffened, as had the young face. "It is not mischief, sir; it is earnest. I will have yos'Galan on its knees—hideous brother and first sister! Aye, and young Val Con, as well! How dare he treat a guest so? It was sheer insult, sir! They gave no consideration to that due one of Plemia! They will learn—and not soon forget! 'Korval,' Chelsa bleats, with fear in her face! A rabble of ill-raised brats! There is balance owing, sir, and it will be obtained. That I promise!"

  "I see," Taam said again sadly. He took a breath. 'Then you will not be adverse, I think, to this other news I bring. Korval demands a meeting, in sight of port master and witnesses, to establish balance and put paid to all accounts. The time is set for this local evening, if you find yourself able to attend."

  "Korval demands a meeting!" Sav Rid laughed. "But they must, after all! How could they allow the idiot eldest to ruin himself?" He disengaged and bowed gravely. "I will accompany you with the greatest pleasure, sir."

  SHIPYEAR 65

  TRIPDAY 182

  SECOND SHIFT

  8.30 HOURS

  Sleep receded, and she opened her eyes. The room had an uncertain familiarity—not her own quarters, nor yet the prison cell… Sick bay, memory provided. Lina had sent her into sleep, riding the wave of one resounding note, to wake when the healing reverberation was at last still.

  How many hours? She wondered without urgency. She stretched, catlike, where she lay, noticing the cramp in her right hand, her thumb tucked tightly into her fingers.

  Slowly, she eased the tension, the great amethyst of the master's ring sparkling in the room's dim light. Priscilla smiled. Goddess bless you, my dear, for bringing me home.

  She stretched again, relishing the sensation, then sat up, pushing the thin cover away. Time to be about, whatever time it was. And she was starving.

  The door to her left opened with a soft sigh.

  "Morning, gorgeous!"

  She started, then grinned at the gangling medic. "Vilt. Do you always terrify your patients when they wake up?"

  "Makes sense," he pointed out, taking her arm and beginning to unwrap the gauzy dressing. "If they're gonna have a heart attack, might as well have it here, where there's somebody to take care of 'em."

  "Who?" she wondered, and he laughed, laying the dressing aside.

  "Go ahead, do your worst. Just remember who runs the inoculation program around here. Arm looks great. Damnedest burn I've ever seen, though: inside, between wrist and elbow." He shook his head. "How'd you do it?"

  She looked him in the eye. "Throwing a fireball."

  "That a fact? Lucky you didn't lose some fingers. Better use a glove next time."

  "Goddess willing, there won't be a next time."

  "If you say so. How's the throat?"

  "Okay."

  Vilt shook his head in mock severity. "Think I'm taking your word for it? Open up, gorgeous—and don't even think about biting."

  She submitted resentfully. Vilt made a thorough and, she suspected, leisurely exam, then grunted and stepped back.

  "Looks good. Be careful of the voice for a couple days, just in case."

  "Let the captain do the talking," she suggested.

  He laughed again. "He will, anyway. I've known Shan since I was apprentice m
edic on this ship and he wasn't any older than Gordy. Been talking nonstop all that time. Likely born talking. His mother was a linguist, which probably accounts for it. Genes, you know," he explained sagely as Priscilla chuckled. He stepped back, abruptly sober. "All right, gorgeous, pay attention. Sometime between leave-time yesterday and arrival time, you lost one-tenth of your mass. The kitchen has been provided with special menus, just for you. You will eat everything on your tray until you've regained that weight. And just to keep you honest, you'll weigh in before you begin each duty-shift." He glanced at his watch. "A tasty, high-caloric breakfast will be here in three minutes. After you've eaten everything on the tray, you can use the 'fresher across the hall. Lina put fresh clothes in there for you. Any questions?"

  "No."

  "Great." He slapped her shoulder lightly and grinned. "See ya later."

  "Vilt!"

  "Yah?"

  "Is Gordy okay?"

  He snorted. "That kid? Been up for hours. Demanded to see you. Lina took him off to help in the pet library. Said you'd call him there when you woke up."

  "I'll do that, then."

  "You'll eat that breakfast before you do anything. Aha!" He stepped triumphantly to one side, allowing the orderly to push the meal cart up to the bed. "Enjoy!"

  Priscilla stepped out of the dry cycle, running her fingers through unruly curls and frowning at her reflection. Her teachers had ever been anxious about her slenderness, saying that her body—Moonhawk's vessel—was not robust enough to endure the working of larger magics.

  True enough, by the mirror's testimony. Fourteen pounds lost meant countable ribs and jutting hipbones, the knobs at wrist and collar painfully apparent. She cupped a breast, sighing. She looked like a disaster victim. She turned sharply away to rummage in the closet.

  The fresh clothes were unexpectedly fine. Priscilla wondered where Lina had gotten them, for they had the air of things handmade to personal specification rather than bought from general stores. Wonderingly, she unfolded the silky shin, noting the flaring collar and the wide, pleated sleeves gathered tightly into ruffled cuffs. Its color was a pure and shimmering rose. The trousers were river-blue and soft. Velvet? she wondered, running light fingers down the nap. They belled slightly at the knee and fell precisely to the instep of the new black boots. She ran the tooled leather belt around her waist, fastened the rosy agate buckle, and turned again to her reflection.