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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  "Alas, I am found out..."

  "Meri! Corvill! Bring your bowls over here now. Soup's hot."

  Miri grinned at him. "That's us - wonder what we're supposed to do now?"

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the old woman pull a ladle from its hook over the stove. "Bowls, I think," he murmured, and picked up two, moving toward the stove with a deliberately heavy step.

  Miri blinked at the unaccustomed noise, then shrugged, picked up the remaining bowl, and followed.

  Zhena Trelu smiled and ladled soup into the two bowls Corvill held ready. Then she filled Meri's bowl and touched the girl's shoulder. "Wait."

  She opened yet another drawer, produced a half-loaf of bread, and held it out. Miri took it in her free hand and carried it to the table.

  Zhena Trelu hesitated, nodded to herself, and went to the icebox, pulling out butter. Her hand hovered over the cheese for a moment before descending. Skinny as they were? How could there be a question?

  Butter and cheese balanced in one hand, she hefted the milk pitcher with the other and pushed the door shut with her knee. At the table she poured milk for all before looking around for her seat.

  They had left her the chair at the head of the table, she realized then: Jerrel's place. The two of them sat next to each other, in what in later years had come to be the boy's chair, and his wife's.

  Zhena Trelu smiled, pleased to see that they had not touched their soup. Manners, then, foreign or no. She picked up her spoon and had a taste, and they followed suit. Certain that they understood they were free to go on without her, she laid her spoon down, pulled the bread toward her, and laboriously sawed off three ragged slices. Then she took the cheese out of its paper and hewed off a largish chunk for each of them, laying it on the plates next to their bread.

  Her own slice she slid into the toaster, reminding herself to pay attention to it. There was something wrong with the contraption; lately it burned bread to cinders without ever giving warning that it was done.

  She picked up her spoon again and addressed the soup, watching her guests but trying not to stare.

  The boy was left-handed and ate seriously, giving his whole attention, apparently, to the meal.

  Meri was right-handed and appeared distracted, darting quick bird-glances around the room. She picked up her bread and broke it in half, using it to soak up some broth while she said something to the boy, who laughed and reached for his glass, and then jerked his head up, staring at the toaster.

  "Oh, wind take the thing!" Zhena Trelu cried, smacking the release. The toaster chingged! and discharged a scorched rectangular object that smoldered gently and dripped charred bits onto the tablecloth.

  "Damn you," she muttered, mindful of her company, and pulled the plug vindictively. She sawed off another piece of bread and buttered it, sighing.

  She offered her guests more of everything, but they either did not understand or were too shy to avail themselves of her hospitality. Zhena Trelu finished her milk, wiped her mouth carefully, and folded her hands in front of her, wondering what to do. The most reasonable course was so send them on their way; and, truth told, they did look more rested, though Meri's face was still paler than Corvill's.

  Miri tipped her head, catching Val Con's eye. "Now what?"

  "Now we pay for the meal," he murmured. He pulled the toaster toward him, turned it around, pushed down on the lever, and peered inside the bread slot. Miri watched him for a minute, then slipped out of her chair and gathered the dishes together.

  As she carried them to the sink, she heard Zhena Trelu address one of her incomprehensible comments to "Corvill," and glanced over her shoulder.

  The old woman had risen and was beckoning to Val Con, indicating that he should follow her. Picking up the toaster, he obeyed, throwing Miri a quick smile as he left the room.

  She swallowed hard, slamming the lid on an unexpected need to run after him. Deliberately she turned to the sink and worked out the gimmick for the water, then puzzled out the soap and stood holding it in her hand.

  Month ago you didn't know the man existed, she told herself sharply. Now you can't let him outta your sight?

  Adjusting the water temperature, she began to lather the soap, carefully thinking of nothing. By the time Zhena Trelu returned alone, the glasses were washed and draining, and the girl was scrubbing diligently at a bowl.

  VANDAR

  Springbreeze Farm

  What with one thing and another, it was only reasonable that they spend the night. Corvill fixed the toaster like a charm; it took him the better part of the afternoon, but Zhena Trelu was not critical. She could not have fixed it at all.

  Meri had been set to dusting after the dishes were done, and Zhena Trelu went out to milk the cow. By the time she came back, Corvill was waiting to show her the repaired toaster, and she exclaimed over that for a bit, even toasting a celebratory piece for everybody and doling out the last of the poquit jam.

  A startled glance at the clock about then told her it was time to start making supper, for which she drafted Meri's help, first directing Corvill's attention to the carpet sweeper.

  After supper, she went out to give the scuppins their evening grain while Meri and Corvill did the dishes. On the way back to the house she stopped, shivering in the wind, to look up at the rock-toothed gash that was Fornem's Gap. It was fixing to rain tonight, for sure...

  And who but a two-headed, heartless monster would send the pair of them on their way with night coming on and a cold rain due out of the gap before morning?

  On the porch she paused again, listening to the soft sound of their voices, talking their foreign talk as if the weird word-sounds actually meant something. Shaking her head, she tramped back into the kitchen.

  Meri was in the middle of a yawn, which she belatedly covered with a slender hand.

  "Tired?" Zhena Trelu asked, and sighed at the girl's blank smile.

  She reached out and firmly grasped one small hand. "Come with me."

  Turning down the right-hand hallway, she marched the two of them up the main flight and turned left, past the upstairs parlor and the attic stairs to the boy's old room. Pushing the door open, she yanked on the light cord and finally released Meri's hand to point at the double-wide bed where Granic and his zhena had slept - the same bed the young zhena had died in, struggling to birth a child too big for her.

  "You sleep there," she told Meri.

  The girl moved soundlessly over the rag rug and scrubbed floorboards to sit on the edge of the bed. She smiled and raised her hand to cover another yawn, while Corvill waited quietly by the door.

  "That's fine," Zhena Trelu said. "Good night, Meri." She nodded to the man. "Good night, Corvill."

  "Good night, Zhena Trelu," she heard him say softly as she pulled the door shut behind her.

  Val Con turned down the bed and undressed, folding his clothes onto the bench against the wall. Slipping under the covers, he took a deep breath, consciously relaxing, and let his eyes rest on Miri.

  She undressed, letting her clothes lie where they fell, and went to the mirror across the room, unwrapping the braid from around her head. It seemed that she swayed slightly where she stood, but he was tired enough to believe it only a trick of his eyes.

  "Come to bed, cha'trez."

  She turned her head and gave him a faint smile. "You convinced me."

  It took her too long to walk across the room - she was, indeed, swaying - and she sat on the edge of the bed with a bump. "Why'm I so tired?"

  "Altitude, perhaps. Also, we have had to think very hard today - everything is strange, the words must be heard and remembered..." He shifted, pulling back the covers. "Miri, come to bed; you're cold."

  "Nag, nag." But she slipped under the covers, her face beginning to relax as she closed her eyes - and tensing again as she snapped them open. "Light. Aah, the hell with it." She closed her eyes with finality.

  The hell with it, he agreed silently, and closed his own eyes, letting the t
ide of weariness take him.

  Someone shouted his name; there were rough hands on his shoulders, and he was fighting, and the voice cried his name again, and it seemed familiar, and he opened his eyes with a jerk, staring uncomprehending at the face suspended above him.

  "It's Miri," she told him, breathlessly.

  "Yes." He was shaking, he realized, even more bewildered. The room beyond Miri's shoulder was brightly lit, composed, empty of threat. He looked back into her eyes. "What happened?"

  She let out a shaky breath. "You were having a nightmare. A bad dream." She released his shoulders and slid to one side, her cheek resting on her hand.

  A bad dream? He cast his mind after - and found it immediately; he recognized it for what it was and knew he was shaking harder. The bedclothes were stifling, in spite of his chill. He pushed them away and began to get up.

  "Val Con?"

  He looked at her, and she saw the lines etched around his mouth and the shadow of fear in the green eyes. He was trembling so hard she could see it. She put out a hand and covered his, feeling the cold and the shaking.

  "There's this old Terran cure for nightmares," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Goes like this: You have a bad dream, you tell somebody. Then you never have it again." She offered a smile, wondering if he heard her. "Works."

  He took a slow, deep breath, then lay back down like a thing made of wood and pulled the cover back over him.

  Miri moved closer, not touching but offering warmth, hoping to ease the trembling. She reached out to brush the hair from his eyes.

  "Not a dream," he said, and his voice was as rigid as his body. "A memory. When I was put on - detached duty - from the Scouts to the Department of the Interior I - received my orders and went to fulfill them - immediately, as instructed. I entered the proper building and walked down the proper hallway - and every step I took down that hall it seemed there was something - crying out? - screaming - in me - telling me to run, to go far away, to on no account continue forward..."

  "And did you?" she asked softly.

  He made a sound, which she did not think was laughter. "Of course I did. What else would I have done? Disobeyed orders? The dishonor - the disgrace...Gone eklykt'i? My Clan..." He was holding himself so stiffly that she thought he would break.

  "I continued down the corridor, fighting myself every step of the way - against every instinct I had otherwise. Against my hunch. The only time in my life I failed to heed a hunch..." He closed his eyes.

  Miri shifted beside him, worriedly.

  "I went down the hall," he said tonelessly, "through the proper door, handed my papers in, and commenced training as an Agent of Change. And they lied, gods, and made it seem truth and twisted what I saw and how I knew things and pushed and pulled inside my head until Val Con yos'Phelium was hardly more than a memory. And it hurt..." He took a breath that could not have filled his lungs - and suddenly the horrible control snapped and he was rolling toward her, his arms locking around her, his head burrowing into her shoulder.

  "Ah, Miri," he cried, anguish twisting in his voice. "Miri, it hurt..."

  And he burst into tears.

  She held him until it subsided, stroking the dark hair, running her hands down his back, feeling the tension going, going - gone, finally, with the sudden last of the tears. She held him a little longer and sighed; his breathing told her he was asleep.

  She shifted, trying to ease away, but his arms tightened, and he moved his head on her shoulder, muttering, so that she sighed, resigning herself to a cramped and sleepless night.

  She woke to find him looking very seriously into her face.

  "Morning," she said fuzzily. "Is it morning?"

  "Early morning," he said softly. "I do not think Zhena Trelu is about yet."

  "Good." She moved, meaning to give him a kiss - and stopped.

  "What is wrong?" he asked.

  She shrugged, glancing away from the brightness of his gaze. "I'm never sure whether you want me to kiss you or not."

  "Ah, now that is very bad," he said. "A problem in communication. I suggest that the best course is for you to kiss me whenever you wish to do so. In this way you will eventually be able to ascertain when it is I most wish to be kissed."

  "Yeah?" She grinned and swooped down, intending the veriest peck on the cheek, but he shifted his head and caught her lips with his. His fingers were as suddenly in her hair, loosing the braid, stroking lightly...

  When the kiss was over, Miri lay trembling on his chest, looking at his face, all blurred with longing and lust and love. "Any more kisses like that," she said, hearing that her voice shook as well, "and I ain't guaranteeing the outcome."

  He smiled gently, one eyebrow slipping up. "It's early."

  She closed her eyes against the sight of him, against the sudden stab of - what?

  Robertson, she pleaded with herself, don't go sappy on me. She felt his fingers, feather light and trembling, moving down her cheek, stroking the curve of her throat.

  "Please, Miri," he said wistfully. "I would like another kiss."

  Opening her eyes, she obliged him to the fullest extent possible.

  LIAD

  Solcintra Port

  Yes, the middle-aged voice assured Cheever in uptown Terran, the First Speaker would be delighted to see Mr. McFarland as soon as he arrived. Should a car he dispatched from Trealla Fantrol, or did he have his own transportation?

  "I got cab fare," Cheever growled, mistrusting the voice, the featureless grid from which it emanated, the packet in his inside vest pocket, and very nearly the turtle who had gotten him into this, except there was no sense to that. The turtle had dealt straight. Turtles always dealt straight.

  "Very good, then, sir," the voice told him. "The First Speaker awaits your arrival." The connection stud went dark.

  "Yeah, great," Cheever muttered as he stepped out of the booth into the noisy tide of Port traffic.

  He was nearly to the city gate before he saw a cab and waved it frantically to a halt. The Liaden woman in the driver's slot slanted him a look he was not sure he liked as he settled in the passenger's seat.

  "I want to go to Trealla Fantrol," he snapped in Trade.

  "Ah."

  Cheever glared at her. "You know how to get there, or doncha?"

  "I know the way. The question becomes, 'Can you afford the fare?'"

  He took a deep, frustrated breath. Damn Liaden was laughing at him. "You want your round-trip upfront, is that it? Name your choice: Unicredit, bits, or Liaden money, if you got change for a cantra."

  She stared at him for a long moment, apparently oblivious to the confusion her motionless vehicle was causing among Port pedestrians. "You wish to go to Trealla Fantrol."

  Cheever clamped his jaw and refused to look down at his worn leathers, though the shirtsleeve he saw from the corner of his eye was far from clean.

  "Yeah, I do. This is a cab, ain't it? You can take me to Trealla Fantrol, right?"

  "Indeed, this is a cab. As for taking you to Trealla Fantrol..." The shoulders rippled, conveying nothing. "It is a pleasant morning for a drive."

  Abruptly the cab swerved into traffic, gained momentum, dashed down a side street, and, a moment later, sped through the main gates. Cheever sat back in the seat, swearing at shortened leg room, and stared out the window, thinking about his ship.

  Solcintra went by in a blurring zigzag of tree-lined streets. The ground pilot knew her quadrant inside out, Cheever allowed grudgingly, then snapped upright in the short seat as they sailed through a second gate - this one old and stone and shrouded with purple blossoms - and were abruptly in open country.

  "Hey!"

  The cabbie turned her head, forward velocity unchecked.

  "Where the hell we going?" Cheever yelled, staring in confusion at jade-green meadow on one side, trees on the other, and a twisty road running toward some kind of tower leaping up out of a stand of trees way on the far side of the valley.

  "We are going to Tre
alla Fantrol. It is the destination you chose. I merely agreed to take you - as far as we are allowed to go."

  There was an unmistakable note of malice in that last bit. Cheever silently cursed the Liaden race, this specimen in particular, and his own stupidity in mentioning that he had a cantra on him. She was going to take him to Trealla Fantrol, okay - the long way.

  "Where I want to go's in Solcintra," he tried, keeping his voice reasonable.

  "Then you do not wish to go to Trealla Fantrol."

  "Oh." He frowned out the window, where the tower across the valley was taking on more details by the second. In fact, it did not look like a tower at all, but a tree, except who had ever heard of a tree that tall? He pointed at it. "That Trealla Fantrol?"

  The cabbie laughed. "Indeed it is not. That is Jelaza Kazone. Perhaps you'd rather go there? Though I hear the Korval is not presently in residence."

  "Trealla Fantrol," Cheever said firmly, "is where the First Speaker of Clan Korval lives. I know that."

  "Do I dispute it? Look to your left hand and you will see the chimneys."

  He found seven of them, crowning a tight cluster of trees, then lost sight of all as the cab plunged down a steep incline, dashed left into a sudden roadway, and proceeded at an abruptly conservative pace.

  They had gone perhaps a quarter mile when she glanced at him once more. "It appears you are expected."

  He looked back, laconic in the face of her surprise. "What makes you think so?"

  "The last fare I had to Trealla Fantrol was stopped a cab's length inside the grounds." There was another ripple of thin shoulders. "One assumes that she was not expected."

  They passed beneath an archway, and the perfume of the flowers was momentarily overpowering until driven away by a sharp, lemony scent from the bushes on both sides.

  The bushes ended and the cab spun through a quick right turn, left turn, emerged into a sweeping elliptical drive, and stopped smoothly at the base of a stairway.