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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  "My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."

  Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"

  "It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."

  If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.

  "Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color – the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."

  The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you – I am content."

  Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.

  CMS was at .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.

  Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.

  Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.

  "Hello, Miri."

  "What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.

  He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.

  "It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."

  "There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.

  He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.

  "It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. It reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam'." He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."

  "Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin – my mother. Miri Tayzin – grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother – she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats…" She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.

  "Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to her mother, and she'd be happy knowin' it was off Surebleak – and me, too." Her eyes sharpened suddenly.

  "You knew," she said, and it was surety, not accusation. He nodded. "I knew as well as I could, for whatever difference it might make. I was surprised to find that you did not know, and that you thought yourself so Terran." He offered her a smile. "Look at you. Everyone knows Liadens are short, small compared with other humans; that the heartbeat is a fraction off, the blood count a trifle different…"

  She shrugged, and the smile she returned him was real.

  "Mutated within acceptable limits. Says so in my papers."

  "Exactly my point," he murmured. "Because it makes no real difference. No reasonable difference. I have it that we are all the same seed: Terran, Liaden, Yxtrang."

  "Yxtrang, too?" She was onto the other point before he could nod. "You have that officially?"

  He ran a finger over the smooth enamel work of Erob's badge. "My father did. He had access to the best of the genetics data, and to – other – information. In fact, he gave the information to the Terran Party."

  "He what?" She was staring at him. "The Terran Party? What'd they do, laugh at him?"

  He moved his shoulders against the sudden tension. "They tried to assassinate him."

  Air hissed between her teeth, not quite a whistle. "They would, you know. Especially if they thought it was true. But you said – they tried."

  He glanced down, took up the disk, and turned it over in his hands. "They tried… He was walking with my mother – his lifemate, you understand, not a contract-wife. She saw the man pull the gun – and she stepped in front, pushing my father aside." He turned the badge over and over in his hands, light running liquid over the many colors. "She was hit instead. They'd used a fragging pellet. She had no chance at all."

  "So," she said after a long moment, "you do have a vendetta against Terrans."

  His brows twitched together in a frown. "No, I don't." He flipped the badge lightly to the padding. "What good would a vendetta against Terrans do? Because one man with a gun did as he was ordered? Perhaps – probably – he thought he was protecting his family, his Clan, his planet, all of them, from some horrible destiny. I would think that the death of one man would be a cheap price to end such a threat, then and there."

  He flexed his arms and leaned back. "A vendetta? Anne Davis, who took me as her own, raised me as her own – she was Terran, though my uncle, her lifemate, was Liaden." He glanced up, half-smiling. "You and I could be partners were you full Terran; there is nothing between our people that makes us natural enemies. No. No vendetta."

  He picked up Erob's badge and offered it to her.

  "I think," he said slowly as she took the disk from his hand, "that there is little purpose to thinking things like "The Liadens,' "The Clutch,' "The humans,' or even "The Yxtrang.' I think the best way to think – and talk – is in particulars: 'Val Con,' 'Miri,' 'Edger.' If you need to think bigger because some things take more people, it might be wise to think 'Erob,' 'Korval,' 'Middle River' – a group small enough that you can still name the individuals; a group small enough that you can, in time, know the individuals, the parts of the Clan. Where is the threat in 'Handler,' 'Edger,' Terrence'?"

  She stood holding the Clan sign loosely, puzzlement shadowing her gray eyes.

  "You didn't learn that in spy school," she told him flatly.

  He looked down and began to stroke the keys of the 'chora.

  "No," he said, very softly. "I don't think I did."

  She clicked open her pouch and dropped the Erob-link within, her eyes on the top of his head as he sat bent over the keyboard once more.

  "So how come you're a spy and not a Scout?"

  The Loop flared and he was up, hands flat on the keyboard, primed to stop the deadly danger of her; he saw disbelief flash across her face even as her body dropped into a crouch, ready to take his attack, a trained opponent, growing deadlier by the instant –

  "Miri." His voice cracked and he swallowed air; he raised a hand to push the hair from his forehead and exercised will to banish the Loop from consciousness… "Miri, please. I would – like – to tell you the truth. It is my intention to tell you the truth."

  He saw her make the effort, saw the fighting tension drain out of shoulders and legs as she straightened and grinned shakily.

  "But I shouldn't push my luck, right?"

  "Something very like," he agreed, pushing the hair on his forehead up again. It fell back immediately.

  "You really do need a haircut."

  The adrenal rush had left him drained, a little shaky, but curiously at ease. He flashed a quick grin. "I find that suggestion hard to take seriously from some
one whose own hair falls well below her waist."

  "I like it long."

  "And you a soldier!"

  "Yeah, but, you see, my commander told me never to cut it. Just following orders!"

  He laughed and found within himself an urge to talk, to explain – to justify.

  "Orders can be difficult, can they not?" he said, sitting down again before the 'chora. "I came to this world because there was a man who was a great danger to many, many people of different sizes and shapes. A man who thought anyone whose heartbeat and blood failed to match his own was a geek – worthless – and who killed and tortured the hopeless.

  I was ordered here, but having seen the man act, I believe that I did what was proper. The reason I was ordered here, I think, is that a vendetta claim would have been sufficient to stop an investigation of my further motives, had something gone awry." He paused, then went on more slowly.

  "After all, spy or Scout, I am a volunteer, am I not? I have already agreed to go first, to make the universe safe. A Scout or a spy – it is the same thing. I am an agent of change in either case. Expendable – too useful a tool not to use.

  Sometimes," he continued softly, "tools are programmed to protect themselves. This 'chora, for example, can be moved about within the hyatt with no difficulty. Yet, if we attempted to move it off the grounds, it would start howling, or perhaps it would simply not function at all." He looked at her carefully. "The 'chora may not even know what it will do when the boundary is crossed – some circuits are beyond its access. Tools are like that, sometimes."

  Miri nodded warily. "But people – " she began and chopped off her words as the door cycled to admit Handler and Sheather.

  "It has been arranged," Handler told them, "that we shall all six dine in the so-called Grotto located belowstairs in this establishment. There is said to be music, which our elder brother will find pleasing, and there is also dancing, which we thought might be pleasing to our human friends. And," he said, voice dropping to what Miri thought must be intended as a whisper, "the form of the Grotto may be pleasing to all of us, since it is a likeness of a cavern system found elsewhere on this planet. We have bespoken the table for eight of the clock, and we hope that there will be sufficient time before the celebration for you to refresh yourselves, adorn yourselves, and be ready. We would not wish the event to begin with unseemly haste."

  The humans exchanged a glance, and Val Con bowed.

  "We thank you for your thoughtfulness. Six hours is more than adequate for our preparations. We shall be ready in the fullness of time."

  "That is very well, then," Handler said. "If you will excuse us, we shall take our leave so that we may make analyses and also prepare for the evening. It does bode to be a time of some discussion."

  The humans bowed their thanks and acknowledgements, Miri attempting to copy Val Con's fluid style and finding it much harder than it looked. The Clutch adjourned to their own quarters.

  Miri sighed. "Well, I don't know how much adornment I'll be doing, though the refreshment part don't sound too bad. Maybe I can order a fancy new shirt out of the valet." She was talking to herself, not expecting an answer; Val Con's reply made her jump.

  "You can't go like that, you know," he told her seriously. "Not into the most exclusive resort on the planet."

  "Yeah, well, I can't go in any of the clothes the valet's peddling, either! Have you looked at the prices on those things? I could mount an invasion of Terra for the price of a pair of shoes. I'm here to pick up my money, remember? It's gotten so I gotta water my kynak so I can have a second drink. I sure can't go into debt to finance something I'll wear once in my life!"

  Val Con tipped his head, brows bent together in puzzlement. "You would be very conspicuous in what you are wearing now," he said simply. "And Edger has said that the expense of the trip is his, since he counts a debt owed me, and because he had not thought to come to Econsey to research the local need for knives. Even if he wished not to extend his cognizance to you, I might pay – "

  "No." She frowned stormily. "That ain't the way I do things. I can just stay in my room, beg off that it's a holy day or something."

  "Now that would be an insult, after Handler went to the trouble and thought of arranging a place where we can all eat and enjoy." He paused, seemingly studying the air.

  "It would be best not to wear a gun." As he spoke, he opened his pouch and brought out a slender polished stick, something like a Drumetian math-stick.

  "Perhaps you could wear your hair to accommodate this." With a flick of the wrist, the stick separated, becoming the handle of a thin, deadly-looking blade, smoothly sharp along the curved edge, wickedly serrated along the other.

  Another wrist-flick and the slender dirk was merely a polished stick: knife to ornament. He reversed it and held it out.

  Miri hesitated. "I ain't a knife expert – just about know how to use a survival blade."

  "If anyone gets close enough to grab you," he said, all reason, "pull it out, flip it open, stick it in, and run. It is not likely you will be pursued." He extended it further. "Simplicity itself, and a precaution only."

  She looked from the knife to his face; when she finally accepted the thing, she took it gingerly, as if she much preferred not to.

  "I," she announced, "am being bullied."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Lazenia spandok," she said, rudely.

  His eyebrows shot up. "You speak Liaden?"

  "Well enough to swear and pidgin my way through a battle plan. And if ever anybody was a managing bastard, you are. In spades." She turned toward her room, experimentally flipping the hidden blade out and in.

  Behind her, he murmured something in Liaden. She whirled, glad the blade was closed.

  "That ain't funny, spacer!" The Trade words crackled with outrage. "I ain't a young lady and I don't need you to tell me to clean up my talk!"

  "Forgive me." He bowed contrition and dared a question. "Where are you going?"

  "To refresh and adorn myself. I've only got about five hours or so, after I decide what shoes to wear."

  And she was gone, leaving him to wonder at the sudden bite of bereavement and at the impulse that had led him to address her in the intimate mode, reserved for kin. Or for lovers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The door closed with a sigh that echoed her own, and she spun, flipping the stickknife onto the desk.

  Nasty little toy, she thought, wrinkling her nose as her hand dropped to the grip of the gun on her leg. Just as deadly, surely, but somehow – cleaner? More straightforward? Less personal, maybe?

  She shifted slightly, then caught sight of herself in the bed mirror and stuck her tongue out.

  Miri Robertson, Girl Philosopher, she thought wryly.

  llania frrogudon… The echo of Tough Guy's murmuring voice contradicted her and she froze, biting her lower lip.

  Liaden was an old language, far, far older than the motley collection of dialects that passed for a Terran language, and divided into two forms: High and Low. High Liaden was used for dealing with most outsiders, such as cowork-ers, strangers, nodding acquaintances, and shopkeepers. Kin were addressed in Low Liaden – long-time friends, children… But never a person considered expendable.

  Yet at least twice he'd begun the motions that would have killed her, automatically, efficiently. She might have brushed her death a dozen times with him already; it had taken her time to realize what the mask of inoffensive politeness he sometimes wore was meant to conceal.

  His other face – the one with the quirking eyebrows and luminous grins – was the face of a man who loved to laugh and who called heart-music effortlessly from the complex keyboard of the 'chora. It was the face of a man who was good to know: a friend.

  A partner.

  She moved to the bed and lay back slowly, imposing relaxation on trained muscles.

  "A Scout ain't a spy," she informed the ceiling solemnly. "And people ain't tools."

  She closed her eyes. Scouts, she thought.
Scouts are the nearest there is to heroes… And he'd said First-in Scout. The best of the best: pilot, explorer, linguist, cultural analyst, xenologist – brilliant, adaptable, endlessly resourceful. The future of a world hung on his word alone: Would it be colonized? Opened to trade? Quarantined?

  Miri opened her eyes. "Scouts are for holding things together," she clarified for the ceiling. "Spies are for taking things apart."

  And that babble he'd given her about tools!

  She rolled over, burying her head in the basket of her crossed arms, and relived the moments just passed, when she'd known he was coming across the 'chora at her.

  Gods, he's fast! she marveled. Suzuki and Jase would give a year of battle bonuses to have that speed for the old unit, never minding the brain that directed it.

  Never mind the brain, indeed. She wondered why he'd checked himself those times she'd seen her death in his eyes. She wondered why he'd trusted her with that deadly little blade, why he'd spoken to her… And she wondered, very briefly, if he truly were crazy.

  It seemed likely.

  The thing to do with crazy people is get lots of room between you and them, she said to herself.

  She rolled to her knees in the center of the great bed, bracing her body for the leap to the floor. Time to flit, Robertson. You ain't smart enough to figure this one out.

  "Leave!" she shouted a moment later, when she'd moved no further. Damn Murph and the money. Damn the Juntavas and their stupid vendetta. Damn especially a sentence spoken in a language that might have been her grandmother's but never had been hers.

  Yes, and then? Damn the man who had twice – no, four times – saved her life?

  You're a fool, Robertson, she told herself savagely. You're crazier than he is.

  "Yeah, well, it's a job," she said aloud, shoulders sagging slightly. "Keeps me busy."

  She kicked into a somersault, snapping straight to her feet as the roll flipped her over the edge of the bed. On her way to the bathroom, she paused at the desk and picked up the little wooden stick. So easy to hide… She thought of Surebleak and the one or a dozen times in her childhood when such an instrument would have been welcome protection. Memory flashed a face she hadn't seen in years and her hand twitched – the blade was out, silent and ready.