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

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  So thinking, she took one step forward, cleared her throat and said, clear, but not particularly loud.

  "Edger, wake up. We need you."

  Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, Robertson, she scolded herself. You didn't think anything would happen, remember?

  She was just turning to Val Con to let him know that she'd taken her shot and it was his turn now, when a shudder rippled Edger's skin—and then another one, more pronounced.

  The green eyelids flickered—and drew back, disclosing eyes as round and as yellow as moons.

  "Sister," Edger said, at about a quarter of his usual boom. "How may I serve you?"

  Liad

  Jelaza Kazone

  The kitchen was awash with morning sun before the cat and the robot detected, each in its own manner, the sound of light, quick footsteps upon the back stair.

  The robot slid the waiting muffin into the heating unit, and was pouring tea into a pale porcelain cup when the lady herself danced into the room, silver eyes sparkling, her hair a-crackle with power.

  "Good morning, Jeeves!" she greeted the robot, her usually slow voice nearly brisk with merriness. She paused at the stool by the window and bent down to offer her finger to the cat sitting there. "Lord Merlin. You're looking very pleased with yourself this morning, sirrah."

  The cat touched her finger with his nose and turned his head to gaze out the window. Anthora laughed and danced over to the counter, where her place was laid: teacup gently steaming, a single crimson flower in a tall, simple vase, napkin and jampot to hand. She slid lightly onto the tall chair, shook out the napkin—and gave a crow of laughter.

  "Oh, no! Jeeves, where did you find this?"

  "In the linen press, with twenty-three others exactly like it," the robot replied, slipping the muffin from the heating unit onto a plate and rolling across the floor to her side. "I thought it appropriate to your station."

  "Good gods." She blinked, first at the robot, and once more at the napkin and its intricately embroidered tree-and-dragon, which she yet held at arm's length before her. "Two dozen of them, you say? It must have been done as a joke." She tipped her head, considering. "Or perhaps Cousin Kareen had them made. She would think them no less than needful."

  The robot placed the plate before her and she dropped the napkin to her knee.

  "Thank you," she said, and reached for the teacup.

  "You're welcome," said Jeeves, rolling back a respectful distance. The orange sphere at his apex—his "head," as Val Con would have it, though it was no such thing; Jeeves' computational unit was enclosed by his stainless steel mid-part—the orange sphere flickered gently.

  "Did you sleep well, Ms. Anthora?"

  "Do you know," she said, setting the cup down and neatly breaking the muffin, "I do believe I slept most profoundly during the first half of the night, which, as it transpired, was a good thing, eh, Lord Merlin?"

  The cat flicked an ear, but did not deign to turn from his study of the birds in the bush outside his window. Anthora smiled and bit into the muffin. There was silence for a time then—an easy silence, they three being well accustomed to each other's oddities.

  The cat watched out the window; the woman ate and drank; the robot cast his awareness wide, downloading data from the perimeter points and initiating a security check of the house computer.

  "Did you know," Anthora said at last, leaning back and pushing the plate away. "That, on Casiaport, there is a teashop on the same street as the Pilots Guildhall, where one might find the best winter soup on all the world?"

  The robot's orange head flickered. "No, Miss Anthora, I did not know that. Shall I archive the information?"

  She shook her hair back. "I don't think that will be necessary. Though perhaps you should find their recipe for winter soup. We will wish to feed Ren Zel what he likes best."

  "This would be Ren Zel dea'Judan, first class piloting license re-issued out of the Terran Guild, countersigned by Shan yos'Galan and Seth Johnson; five hours certified test flight short of master class?"

  Anthora straightened on the stool and looked thoughtfully at the flickering orange ball. "It sounds very like him. Has he been here before?"

  "I have no record of the pilot before last evening," Jeeves said. "His palm-print is on-file in the house computer. He has access on all levels."

  "Perfectly correct," she said, and looked over her shoulder toward the window. "Really, Lord Merlin."

  The very tip of the cat's tail twitched; stilled.

  Anthora shook her head. "Record Ren Zel dea'Judan as my lifemate, please, Jeeves." She paused, frowning lightly, then nodded. "Send the announcement to the Gazette. List his rank in place of clan—First Mate, Dutiful Passage"

  The light in Jeeves' headball steadied. "Yes, Miss Anthora."

  "Good," she said, slipping off the stool and moving purposefully down the room. "I will call Mr. dea'Gauss."

  Lytaxin

  Erob's Clanhouse

  Orders were to await the captain's word. The captain's word being some time in coming, Nelirikk and Shadia set about exposing the Troop's newest recruits to the intricacies of poker.

  Diglon Rifle grasped the rules of play with a speed that would have been notable in an explorer, and was presiding over a solid wall of money-chips when Nelirikk heard the cadence of a familiar voice in the hall.

  "Attention!" He slapped his cards face down onto the table and surged to his feet, Hazenthull and Diglon scarcely a breath behind him. Shadia turned in her chair, the better to see the door.

  Came the captain and the scout—well enough. And behind them…Nelirikk swallowed, heart slamming into overdrive.

  Behind his captain walked one of them—a Clutch turtle, slayer of soldiers, destroyer of fleets, despoiler of worlds.

  Beside him, Nelirikk heard a small, breathless sound, and dared to move his head the fraction necessary for him to see the recruits.

  Hazenthull's naked brown face was stiff, her eyes wide, her lips compressed into a thin pale line. Diglon Rifle had the appearance of a foot soldier ordered to hold the rear against the approaching line of enemy war-wagons.

  Scout Shadia, seated and at her ease, inclined her head. "Commander Shadow, Captain Redhead. Your Wisdom. Be welcome."

  "Gently said," the slayer boomed in a voice that rattled the brain inside the skull. "May I know your name?"

  The scout inclined her head once more. "Scout Lieutenant First-In Shadia Ne'Zame—in the short form. In the shortest available form, I am called Shadia."

  "Yet another scout!" The creature exclaimed. "One's elder brother is even now conferring with the scout who is the direct ancestor of our own brother—he whom you this instant greeted as Shadow, which I had not known was a part of his name."

  "Only," the scout murmured, "when Scout ter'Meulen is on-world."

  Shadia grinned. "That's so, Clonak being an inspiration to us all. I should mind my manners more closely—but truly, sir, it's so apt a naming!"

  "Others have remarked upon it as well," the scout said, not without a sigh, and glanced up into Nelirikk's face.

  He expected something, then—an explanation, a raised eyebrow, the offer of the scout's own crystal grace blade with which he might honorably cut his throat before the shelled one bit his legs off and left him to die in agony.

  It was not, however, the scout who spoke, but the captain. She came forward some few paces, hands behind her back.

  "Beautiful. What's wrong with you and the recruits?"

  "Captain." He hesitated, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the Clutch turtle. The old battle reports had not overstated the enemy: The horny and impervious hide, the shell that covered the back and the soft, vulnerable belly, the pitiless and unblinking yellow eyes.

  "If the captain pleases," he managed, and was ashamed to hear that his voice was not…completely…soldierly. "Many, many years ago, Clutch turtles handed overwhelming losses across several battle zones to the Troop. The conditions of defeat state that the Troop will
, from that time on, be considered the fair and just prey of the victors."

  "That so?"

  Nelirikk met her eyes. "Yes, captain. It is so."

  "OK. You wanna explain what that has to do with you?"

  He stared at her, then looked to the scout, who returned him a glance that was blandness itself.

  "Captain, it has to do with me and with these recruits that—" He stopped, inwardly cursing himself for an unblooded crechling. Carefully, he saluted.

  "Captain. The treaties between Yxtrang and Clutch have nothing to do with those who serve as soldiers in jela's line."

  She nodded. "That's what I thought, too." She pointed, over her shoulder and up, and continued in the tongue of the Common Troop.

  "Soldiers, attend me! This is Seventh Shell Third Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearkmaker’s Den: The Sheather; field name Sheather. He is the brother-by-oath of myself and the scout. You will serve him and also his brother, who you will meet, as members of Line yos'Phelium. Am I understood?"

  They all three saluted. "Yes, Captain!" rang in unison.

  "Good. We will shortly be moving on the enemy of our Line." She looked at Nelirikk, and spoke next in Liaden, oathholder to oathbound. "Prepare them as befit, those in the service of yos'Phelium," she said and dropped into Terran. "Draw leathers and arms outta the Gyrfalks stores. Give Diglon a short sleep-learn in Trade, and lay a base in Terran, if there's time. Drill 'em both in the signs and calls. You'll be called when it's time to board ship."

  Once more, Nelirikk saluted. "Captain," he said, and then, "If the captain pleases."

  "Now what?"

  "What is our destination, Captain?"

  "Had to ask it, didn't you?" She glanced at the scout, who inclined his head, ironically.

  "Liad is our destination, Explorer."

  Nelirikk allowed himself a grin before he again saluted his captain and turned to give orders to the recruits

  Day 376

  Standard Year 1392

  Spaceport

  Surebleak

  Etienne Borden, Surebleak nightside portmaster, leaned back in the duty chair and grinned up at dayside 'master Claren Liu.

  "Another exciting shift at Surebleak Port," he said, stretching the kinks out of his long arms. "Read all about it in the night log!"

  Claren snorted. "If you've written 'Nothing happened during night shift. Nothing ever happens during night shift. Why is there a nightside portmaster here? Why is there a port here?' again," she said, crossing the room to the dispensing unit and punching up coffee and a bun, "you're going to call yourself to the attention of the guild, which just might pull you and send you someplace worse."

  "Produce this someplace worse!" He challenged.

  She paused in the act of removing her cup from the dispenser, and looked at him. "There must be someplace worse," she said eventually.

  "Hah! I say hah! If there is any other world in the galaxy more backward or barbaric than Surebleak—notice the use of the word if—it cannot possibly support a spaceport. By this logic—therefore, Madam Dayside—Surebleak is on the last rung of the great ladder of worlds, poised to topple into the roiling pit of chaos below it— and any other world in the galaxy—any other world—must, by an extension of pure, emotionless logic, be a better, cleaner saner world."

  "Or maybe not," said Claren, and took a bite of her pastry. "Mithlyn was pretty bad."

  "Mithlyn is a paradise," Etienne proclaimed. "I woo it! I embrace it! I make love to it!"

  "Try, and you'll find you've lost some equipment in the process," she returned. "They're pretty strict about that kind of thing on Mithlyn." She sipped coffee and pointed at the master board with her bun.

  "You signing out, or what? I want my dose of excitement."

  "Excitement!" He spun in the chair, signed out with a flourish and surged to his feet. "The chair is yours, Madam Dayside!"

  "Great." She approached it, unhurried, leaned over the board to put her coffee cup in the slot and her thumb on the scan-plate, glanced at the main screen—and stared.

  "What the—" She brought the image up, diddled with the resolution—and stared some more. "There's a line of cars," she said over her shoulder to Etienne, "seven, nine—twelve cars coming in through the main gate."

  "What?" He was next to her, blinking at the screen like an idiot. "We are invaded, Madam Dayside. The natives have come to claim the spaceport, that they may profit by selling the tugs for scrap."

  "Could be, I guess," Claren said absently, watching the long, stately, well-behaved progress of the caravan, as it passed along the row of empty storefronts and vacant repair shops. "Anything strike you as funny about this?" she asked.

  "Funny?" he repeated. "You mean, besides the fact that we are about to die in a farce engineered—no, I see. They came through the main gate. They came in by the Road."

  "They did. And look at the cars—those aren't jalopies. Those are—" she stopped.

  "What?" He demanded. "Those are what?"

  "Fatcat cars," she said, having recognized the one belonging to Boss Vine, who held the territory outside the main gate. "Etienne, we've got twelve different bosses coming in here."

  He gaped at her. "But—why?"

  She sighed, straightened and crossed the room to take her jacket down from its peg. "Guess I'd better go find out," she said, looking at him over her shoulder. "You up for some overtime?"

  By the time she reached the yard, the cars were parked in neat lines of three under the shadow of the tower, their noses pointed at the main gate.

  Claren stopped a couple strides out from the door, firmly squelching the urge to walk up to one of the men or women disembarking from their vehicles and ask them what the hell they were doing. She was Dayside Portmaster, after all; a post of some dignity, even on Surebleak. She straightened her jacket, so the portmaster beacon stitched onto the breast could be seen.

  The crowd had sorted itself out and was moving toward her as a unit, headed up by a man in a blue jacket, leaning lightly on a cane, his left arm in a sling, the empty sleeve neatly pinned up.

  He halted a comfortable four paces out, the rest ranging 'round him. All of them, Claren saw now, carried something—one woman held a basket filled with shiny green fruits; the man next to the leader held a bouquet of red, gold and white flowers in his arms; another, very large man, held what appeared to be a roll of multicolored fabric on one broad shoulder.

  The leader inclined his head—something more formal than the local nod and less formal than a full-mode Liaden bow.

  "I am called Conrad," he said, his voice melodious and cultured. "And these are my associates. We have come to inform you that the Port Road stands open from the main gate to the inland farms, and to solicit the assistance of the portmaster in matters of off-world trade."

  "Off-world trade?" She stared at him, and was returned a bland and velvet brown glance. "This is Surebleak," she said, sternly. "Just because the Road's open today doesn't mean it'll be open tomorrow. If one boss in line gets assassinated, the Road goes down again."

  "Not necessarily," he replied, softly. "We are crafting ways in which chaos may be avoided in the future." He once again inclined his head in that curiously formal gesture. "Please, allow us to name ourselves to you, and to give the gifts we have brought."

  There wasn't much use in telling him no, Claren thought, looking at the crowd of faces. Some looked cocky and tough; most were poised, with a touch of tentativeness, as if they weren't quite sure what she'd do. It was the realization that they were as nervous of her as she was of them that led her to bend her head, trying to match Conrad's style.

  "I'd be pleased to learn the names of your associates, Mr. Conrad," she said, and was rewarded with a slight, charming smile.

  "Very good," he said and used his chin to point at the man holding the flowers. "This is Penn Kalhoon, of Hamilton Street."

  He came forward a step—a thin, bookish looking man, wearing
a pair of steel eyeglasses, his pale yellow hair brushed painfully flat—and offered the bouquet. She took it, trying not to think how hard it was going to be now to get at the pistol under her arm, and nodded.

  "A pleasure, Penn Kalhoon. I'm Claren Liu, Dayside Port."

  He smiled, which did nice things to his face. "A pleasure, Portmaster," he said and stepped back, making room for the next one in line.

  It went pretty quickly, and much smoother than she would have thought possible, and then there was only the tall man with the fabric over his shoulder left to be introduced.

  "This," Conrad said, in his soft, cultured voice, "is Mr. McFarland, who is in my employ. Recent injuries make it…difficult…for me to carry my own gift. I hope you will receive it with pleasure."

  McFarland stepped forward, shrugging the roll off his shoulder, catching it in deft hands and unrolling it on the tarmac at her feet: A simple and cheery little rug, made out of tied and woven scraps of cloth. Claren smiled—it was that kind of rug.

  "So." Another faint smile. "We are delighted that you were able to speak with us this morning. We do not wish to keep you longer from the duties of your day. May we set a time when three of our number may come to you for a discussion of opening trade—and also, perhaps, to offer some franchise business in port."

  This was a man who knew what a port should look like, Claren thought, and made a mental note to ask him, sometime, where he was from.

  For now, she had another try at that formal nod of the head, and offered a time six days in the future as well-suited for a meeting between herself and the representatives of Conrad's "association". That should give her enough time to get some background and guidance from the guild.

  "Excellent," he said, softly. "Our representatives will be with you upon that day and hour." One last inclination of the head, with the rest of the bunch giving the standard nod, and they were moving away, back toward their cars, leaving their rug, baskets, and bottles on the tarmac at her feet, and Conrad's 'hand, McFarland, rising up like a mountain in front of her, holding one hand out and empty, reaching into his pocket with the other.