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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Cheever stared, hand curling into a fist on his thigh; the weight of the package in his pocket trebled, and he wished fervently that he had taken the time to buy a new shirt.

  "Trealla Fantrol," the cabbie said. "I will take Unicredit."

  He fumbled it out of his pouch and never even looked to see how much she charged him. The turtle had said it was urgent, that Cheever was to deliver the turtle's package to the First Speaker of Clan Korval at Trealla Fantrol, Solcintra, with all possible speed.

  The cabbie shoved the card back into his slack fingers. "My thanks, Jump pilot. Fare you well."

  He started, dropped the card back into his pouch, and took a deep breath as the cab door swung aside. "Thanks. Errr...maybe you better wait."

  "A waste of my time. Trealla Fantrol expects you. It is unlikely you will be sent forth in a cab." The door slid closed, and the cab was moving, taking the rest of the ellipse in smooth acceleration before vanishing down the long drive.

  Cheever squared his shoulders and went up the stairs.

  He laid his palm against the center plate in the big wooden door and composed himself to wait. They were not going to like him, the people who lived here. He had a sinking feeling that they were going to like the turtle's message even less.

  Beyond the door, there was a brief rumble. Then the door was pulled open from the inside, and the voice from the Port phone inquired, "Mr. McFarland?"

  For an instant he wanted desperately to deny it, to run down the stairs and the long drive, back to the Port and the loaned ship. Wanted to ditch the package and forget he had ever said he would deliver it.

  Wanted to back down on his guarantee to a Clutch-turtle?

  "Yeah," he managed, if a little hoarsely.

  "Do step inside, sir. I've been instructed to place you in the small salon. Please come with me."

  He stepped into the velvet-dim hall, turned toward his host - and felt his jaw drop. The squat metal cylinder did not seem to notice; indeed, it may have been too busy closing the heavy door to pay any attention to Cheever's lapse of courtesy.

  Door closed, the 'bot rotated on its axis and gestured with one of its three flexible arms. "Right this way, Mr. McFarland."

  "Okay...Uh, didn't I talk to you on the phone?"

  The orange ball balanced on top of the monstrosity flickered, and all three arms waved gently. "Quite right. I am the butler, sir; Jeeves. At, I might add, your service."

  "Sure you are," Cheever said. He shook his head slightly. "We're going to the - small salon?"

  "Exactly so. If you would be good enough to come with me, sir? It's just a step down the hall."

  Jeeves's step was most people's hike, Cheever decided some minutes later. It took more time to cross the slippery marble foyer than it did to go through a normal Terran house, and he added a second or two to the trip by stopping to stare at the sweep of strellawood stairs.

  "The grand staircase," Jeeves murmured as they moved on. "Each riser hand-carved with an episode from the Great Migration and other illustrious points of history. I'm told it's quite impressive."

  "Uh...yeah. Yeah, it's real nice," Cheever said, and followed the 'bot down a side hall only a little less wide than the foyer.

  There were wooden doors with crystal knobs set dead center; there were impossibly delicate lights glimmering here and there on the wood-paneled walls; there was more wood underfoot, resilient beneath his boots, muting the rumble of the 'bot's wheels. Cheever shook his head to clear it and nearly fell into his guide.

  "Here we are, sir. I trust you'll find the aspect pleasant, what with the ethaldom in bloom. Lord yos'Galan will be with you shortly."

  Three steps into the room, Cheever spun. "Lord yos'Galan!" But the 'bot was gone.

  "I want to see Lady Nova yos'Galan," he told the empty room. "First Speaker of Clan Korval. The turtle said Lady Nova yos'Galan..." Hands tucked into belt, he prowled the perimeter of the room, wincing at the smudge his boot had left on the creamy carpet. Bookshelves filled to capacity - bound books mostly, which told how rich they were even if he had not had the evidence of the house, the grounds, and the grotesque, efficient robot. People who owned books at all owned book-tapes; Cheever's personal collection included several piloting manuals and the general concordance for the Traland Three Thousands, though of course he had done his own mods on LucyBug...

  The door at his back clicked and creaked, and Cheever spun with pilot quickness, the weight of the package pulling his vest a little wide.

  "Good morning!" an affable voice cried in Terran unsmirched by uptown twang or Liaden blurring. "Mr. McFarland, isn't it? I'm so very glad to meet you, sir!"

  The man coming toward him was Terran-high, though an inch or two shorter than Cheever himself, and dressed in exquisitely clean trousers and a full-sleeved, claret-colored shirt that set off the white hair shockingly. Beneath the old man's hair was a young man's face: big nose, wide mouth curved in a grin, pale eyes warm under slanting, silver brows. He held out a large, square hand on which an amethyst ring gleamed.

  "Shan yos'Galan at your service."

  Cheever grinned and slapped his own hand around the one offered. "Cheever McFarland. Pleased to meet you."

  "As I am to meet you - but I said that already, didn't I? Mustn't repeat myself. Has no one given you wine? My dear man...Our hospitality has been wanting, and you fresh from the Port. Very dusty sort of place, Solcintra Port. Don't you find it so?"

  "Errr..." Cheever said as the big hand came to his shoulder and coaxed him toward a discreet onyx counter.

  "Precisely," his host said. "Will you have some morning wine? Whiskey? Misravot? Brandy? We have an excellent jade and a passable white, but I confide in you, sir - the red excels them both."

  Whiskey...Cheever could almost taste it. A whiskey would be real good. Regretfully, he shook his head. "You wouldn't maybe have some coffee?" He smiled a little sheepishly at the other man. "Been up for a while, see? 'Fraid the booze'd go straight to my head."

  "We can't have that, can we? Jeeves," he said, apparently to the room at large. "Please bring Mr. McFarland some coffee."

  Glass clinked against crystal as he poured himself a healthy swallow of red wine. "I can't help noticing the insignia on your vest. Bascomb Lines, isn't it?"

  Cheever's hand went to his left breast, where the once-bright Sol System insignia had almost faded away. "Yeah..."

  "Do you work for the line?" Shan asked, lifting his glass. "I've just recently concluded some business with Ms. Lillian Bascomb and Captain Barney Keller - do you know them?"

  "Lillian - I know - knew Lillian real well. Barney an' me ran the board together on the big bruiser - he wasn't no captain then."

  "A pilot of some skill! What's it like, piloting a big cruise ship? Exciting?"

  Cheever shrugged. "It's okay. But I like a little ship - better handling, faster, put 'er in and out of someplace tight before anybody knows you been there. Can't do that kind of stuff with the big ones. Got to play it straight." He nodded. "Like running my own boat."

  "Do you?" Shan murmured as the door swung open to reveal robot and tray. "Reprieved, sir! I hope you find the coffee to your liking. Jeeves, Mr. McFarland tells me he's been up for days and that only a cup of your finest will see him safely through the next hour. Cream, sir? Sweetening?"

  "Just black, thanks." He took the steaming cup from the 'bot, stomach cramping as he remembered that the past days hadn't included too many meals, either.

  "I'm amazed," Shan yos'Galan was saying, "to see you so quickly. We were warned to look for you only yesterday."

  Cheever grimaced as he burned his tongue. "I left two days ago."

  "Really? You must have been very far away."

  "Farther than you think," Cheever told him with a glint of pride. "All the hell and gone in the Second Quad."

  "Quite a trip," Shan murmured appreciatively. "And so quickly! No wonder you're tired. If you like, I can take your charge to my sister. I should have made her apologies to y
ou sooner - my dreadful manners, sir, do bear with me! She was called to speak with our man of business. But I assure you that I am completely trustworthy to - "

  Cheever set his cup on the bar with a thckk. "Turtle said to give the package to First Speaker Nova yos'Galan. Said I was to put it in her hands."

  The light eyes quizzed him over the cup's fragile rim. "Commendable." He turned his head slightly. "Jeeves."

  "Your lordship?"

  "Please inform my sister that Mr. McFarland can deliver his package into no hands but her own. I trust her manners are equal to the task of excusing herself from Mr. dea'Gauss for half an hour."

  "Certainly, sir." The 'bot wheeled out of the room, dragging the door shut behind it.

  "She'll be by in a moment or two, and then we'll get you to bed, sir, never fear."

  "Huh?" Cheever frankly stared. "Hey, look - I mean, that's really nice and all, Mr. yos'Galan, but you don't need to put me up. I'll snatch a couple hours at the Port while I'm waiting for clearance - it's a borrowed ship, see? Turtle's deal was he'd pay for repairs to LucyBug if I delivered this stuff for him. Came into the bar asking for the hottest pilot there. I said I was - not bragging; stupid to lie to a turtle - and the rest of 'em said yeah, that's right."

  "I see. Very nice of the turtle. What was his name, by the way? My ghastly memory!"

  "Edger, he said to call him. Big somebody. Voice like to crack your eardrums." Cheever picked up the cup and gulped down the contents. "Real character, ain't he?"

  "So I've been told. But I really must insist that you guest with us, sir. It's the least we can do for the trouble you've gone to on our account! Do let me convince you!"

  "No, listen, that's - "

  "Shan?" The voice was soft, accented and thoroughly lovely.

  And the person who came with it was slim and small and golden and perfect. The violet eyes were huge in an adorable pointed face, framed by spun-gold hair. Cheever frankly stared.

  The diminutive goddess stared back, infinitesimal frown shadowing the smooth expanse between flawless brows.

  Into the growing silence swept Shan yos'Galan. "Ah, there you are, sister! Allow me to present Mr. Cheever McFarland, who has something he must deliver only to you."

  She bent in a bow so graceful that Cheever felt tears start to his eyes. "Cheever McFarland, I am happy to meet you."

  "And I'm ha - happy - to meet you..." Some nearly paralyzed grain of sense stirred. "I've got something to deliver to Nova yos'Galan, First Speaker of Clan Korval."

  "I am that person," she said softly. "You may unburden yourself."

  His hand started toward the inside pocket, then checked. "I'm sorry, but see - since I don't know you and all. Edger said I was to ask you to tell me your name."

  "My name." The frown line became more pronounced, and it was all Cheever could do not to go down on his knees and beg her not to tease herself about it; he would give her the damn package, if only...

  "My name," she began, quite seriously, "is Nova yos'Galan First Speaker-in-Trust Clan Korval, She Who Remembers, First Sister to Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy."

  It was music; it was angel-song. He could have listened to her voice for hours - days - years. It was inconceivable that he would ever tire of hearing...

  "Uh - yeah," he stammered, reaching in at last and drawing the thing forth. "Here you go."

  She took it gravely in small hands and bowed once more. "My thanks to you, Cheever McFarland, for the service you do Korval. Please allow Jeeves to show you to the guesting room."

  "Yeah..." he said again, and managed a rough bow, mere parody of her smooth perfection. "I'll, umm, I'll see you later."

  "We will speak again," she agreed.

  He glanced back once as he followed the 'bot down the hall, and saw her hands already busy at the sealing tape.

  LIAD

  Trealla Fantrol

  "Cut that out!" Gordy brushed the screen, diverting Lady Pounce's attack from the cursor to his hand. "Cut that out, too! Dumb cat."

  She blinked angelic and slightly crossed blue eyes at him and tucked her paws neatly beneath her snowy chest.

  Gordy sighed gustily. "If you want to stay up there, you stay just like that. No more killing the cursor, hear me? I've got to finish this check."

  Lady Pounce slitted her eyes in amiable acquiescence and even purred a few notes, though Gordy did not believe a word of it. He turned his attention back to the gridwork of equations that represented the contents and balancing of the Dutiful Passage's holds. The grid had already been checked by Cargo Master yo'Lanna, who had generated it; by First Mate Mendoza; and by Captain yos'Galan. Scant chance Gordy would find an error missed by that seasoned team. Nor was there truly any reason for an associate trader to concern himself with administrative details, except that Shan insisted, explaining, with a sweep that drew all eyes to the Master Trader's amethyst on his hand, that there was enough knowledge in the wide universe that Gordy never need fear learning too much.

  Immersed in checks and cross-checks, he did not hear the light step behind him, and he started badly at the sudden hail.

  "Well met, young Gordon! How do you go on today?"

  Gordy's fingers jammed home three keys at once, eliciting a peevish beep as he spun in the chair, blood mantling his cheeks. "Oh," he said quellingly. "Hi."

  The slender, dark-haired gentleman performed a bow as exquisite as his clothing; to eyes unused to the nuances of such things, the movement was a confection of graceful delight. "Your enthusiasm does you credit. Indeed, the invariable warmth of your greetings has ever been numbered among my chiefest joys in our kinship."

  Sure it has, Gordy thought. He came out of the chair slowly, towering over the other man like a mountain over a molehill, and solemnly bowed the bow between Clanmembers.

  "Forgive me, kinsman," he said, the High Liaden words only slightly edged in Terran accent, "for the attention to my work that hid your approach and may have cloaked my greeting in less than cordiality. You must by this time in our association have the measure of my admiration for you."

  "Oh, very good," Pat Rin murmured, dark eyes gleaming. "Quite nearly a hit, I believe. Well done, young Gordon."

  Gordy ground his teeth, keeping face and voice smooth with an effort that became less with each trade deal he negotiated. "How may I serve you, sir?"

  "I seek your foster father, child. Is he within the house? Or must I languish upon Lady Mendoza's doorstep for a sight of him, like all the rest of the world?"

  Priscilla would have you arrested for vagrancy, Gordy thought savagely, while he politely inclined his head. "He was just up the hall, speaking to Jeeves."

  Pat Rin sighed delicately and flicked a wholly imaginary speck of dust from a moss-green sleeve, rings glittering on shapely fingers. "Speaking to the robot? But Shan will speak to anything, won't he? I've noted it time and again."

  "Shall I fetch him for you, sir? It would take but a - "

  "Pat Rin! Well met, cousin, how do you go on?"

  Gordy spun toward the door, face wreathed in disbelief.

  Pat Rin laughed his soft, malicious laugh and performed another beautiful, sarcastic bow. "Kinsman. I am exceptionally well. How do you find yourself?"

  "I leave that to Priscilla," Shan said, smiling vaguely and impartially on Gordy, Pat Rin, and Lady Pounce. "Morning isn't my best time, and if I had to spend half of it finding myself - well, you appreciate, cousin, I'd be in a fair way to getting nothing else done at all."

  Pat Rin frowned at the rush of Terran but answered competently in the same tongue. "You see me here on your word. How may yos'Phelium serve yos'Galan?"

  The silver eye sharpened. "yos'Phelium? Have you taken up Thodelm's melant'i?"

  "Certainly not," Pat Rin said, dropping his eyes to watch the play of light among his rings. "But you see, cousin, we of Line yos'Phelium find ou
rselves without a lord these several years, so that we grow accustomed to coming to Korval's First Speaker for resolution of matters belonging more properly to the Line."

  "A complaint, in fact."

  "An observation. You are yourself Thodelm yos'Galan. Would you run to the First Speaker with every up and down of your close kin?"

  Shan blinked, icicle-sharp eyes melting back to blandness. "Well, things are a bit confused these days, cousin, admit it. Korval has shrunk to a handful; the Nadelm fends the Ring from his finger; the lines of administration are crossed and recrossed a dozen times over." He smiled. "We muddle on."

  "While Nadelm Korval remains missing, and the Clan does its least to discover him."

  Shan said nothing.

  Pat Rin shrugged and looked up from admiring his rings. "One hears rumors, as one goes about. All the world notes the continued absence of Val Con yos'Phelium. Many remark upon yos'Galan's complaisance. They recall that Korval passes the Ring from pilot to pilot. They recall that Shan yos'Galan wears the badge of a master pilot." He dropped his eyes again and concluded softly, "While Pat Rin yos'Phelium is no pilot at all, nor ever shall he be one."

  The silence stretched. Gordy watched Shan's face, but saw only vagueness there.

  "Rumor is a dangerous song to heed," Shan commented. "But none of this bears on my need to see you, cousin! I wonder about your trip."

  Pat Rin actually blinked. "My trip?"

  "Exactly! Weren't you planning a jaunt to Philomen soon, for a bit of rest from your labors?"

  "Yes. My plans are firm, in fact."

  "Fine, fine, excellent! You'll be wanting a pilot, I know, and it - "

  "It happens that I employ an adequate pilot, kinsman. My thanks for your kind thought."

  "Yes, but you see, we have at hand a more than adequate pilot - and you need not be out of pocket an additional tenth cantra! Korval will balance any difference between payscales." He raised his glass and sipped. "The man requires occupation, kinsman! Surely you wouldn't deny him work to pass the time away?"

  Pat Rin considered him out of thoughtful dark eyes, and Shan bore the scrutiny patiently, seeing anew how much his cousin resembled Val Con: the same glossy dark hair, level brows, and firm mouth.