Mouse and Dragon

by Sharon

  It was signed by all of the members of the Guardians of Knowledge and the three unaffiliated Scholar Experts, which display was significantly longer than the Statement of Certification.

  Daav closed the folder, slipped it into an inside jacket pocket and pressed the seal.

  A note would have to be written, of course. Kiladi was meticulous in such things. Indeed, he bordered on a little too meticulous, did Kiladi; it had seriously pained him to enter the plea for a remote defense. He ought to have gone to Bontemp and stood his defense; it was disrespectful of his colleagues in scholarship to have done otherwise, and yet—travel had become difficult for the good scholar of late, and common sense had at last carried the day.

  Daav glanced at his watch, and turned his steps up-port, away from the little street of temp offices, noodle shops, and automated mail drops. He’d best be quick if he wished to be anywhere near on time to meet Aelliana at Ongit’s for lunch.

  He smiled slightly as he walked. Aelliana—what a marvel she was, to be sure! She grew—were he more loverlike, he would of course say that she blossomed, but hers was no coy unfolding, petal by shy silken petal. No, Aelliana hurtled skyward, branches spreading greedily, soaking up sensation, experience, life at a rate that was nothing short of astonishing. He would take oath that she changed even as she slept; he, proximate to that storm of constant alteration—he had changed, as well.

  It was not to be expected that his growth would be so exuberant as hers; he was her elder—in years, and in experience. Yet with all of that, he felt lighter of late, as if his experience was buoying him rather than bearing him groundward.

  Had he been asked, he most certainly would have said that he would never welcome another person into his rooms, privy to all his bad habits and distempers. Aelliana—he smiled and dashed across the street, dodging busy traffic. That they had not settled in her rooms—that, he thought, was understandable, for she had so little of her own to want about her. His suggestion that they choose another suite to make into theirs had dismayed her, and he had found himself … content to have her establish herself within his space.

  Even, he thought, turning the corner into a street appreciably more prosperous than the one from which Kiladi collected his mail, he had accommodated himself—almost accommodated himself—to her ability to snatch his feelings and his thoughts straight out from the core of him. For himself, the more he observed her, the more he knew her mind and her heart—which was Scoutlike, and comforting.

  For those other things that he desired … Aelliana remained adamant in her refusal to accept what she referred to as a “social lifemating”; nor would she sign the financial papers dea’Gauss had drawn up, and so make some comfort for herself. Those things grieved him, though not as much as her presence fulfilled him. Nothing, he felt, could break their bond, unequal as it was.

  He negotiated a bit of crowded sidewalk, raising a hand to Gus Tav bel’Urik as he passed. The merchant acknowledged him distractedly, most of his attention on a lady of visible means, which was well, in Daav’s opinion. As nearly allied as their clans were, yet he had no wish to exchange extended pleasantries with Merchant bel’Urik today.

  Two steps more and he turned right, into Ongit’s cluttered foyer, and smiled over a small sea of heads at young Pendra Ongit, who was on duty at the reception tower.

  She gave him a grin and jerked her head to the left.

  “She’s waiting for you, Pilot,” she called.

  “My thanks,” he answered and passed Scoutlike through the crowd.

  *

  Daav had arrived.

  In the back booth, Aelliana straightened and craned to see him over the rest of the diners in Ongit’s common room. Useless, of course. How she envied Daav’s height! Especially when he was not on hand to act as her lookout.

  But there—a tall shadow was moving down-room, dark hair sweeping level shoulders, and the glint of silver at one ear. Aelliana smiled, feeling herself warm agreeably. It was thus, now: however contented or happy she had been by herself, that feeling was intensified sixfold by Daav’s arrival. Today, she felt as if she might melt entirely, for she had been happy indeed, and all but ready to burst with her news.

  Long legs delivered him to her quickly. He stood a moment, looking down at her, dark eyes bright, the merest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. For herself, she felt she must be grinning like a babe, too simple yet to control her face—and cared just as little.

  “You are late,” she said, striving for severity.

  “And yet,” he said, with mock seriousness, “you waited for me. How am I to take that?”

  “I might easily have left,” she answered as he slid into the booth next to her, rendering any such escape impossible.

  “So you might have done,” he allowed, and nodded at the wine bottle that had been left to breathe in the center of the table, two glasses standing sentinel.

  “Is that your choice?” he asked.

  “It was sent over by the red-haired pilot,” she said, nodding to the right.

  Daav turned his head, considering for a long moment the boisterous round table where the pilot sat with eight of his comrades. Aelliana blamed him not at all. The red-haired pilot made a compelling figure. Not beautiful, but pleasing, his demeanor somewhat reminiscent of Daav himself. Aelliana thought the similarity might stem from a familiarity with command, and wondered if the red-haired man was also a delm.

  “The pilot has excellent taste, as I happen to know,” Daav said, returning his attention to her. “We could scarcely be so churlish as to disdain his gift. Will you pour?”

  “Certainly. Daav, I have—”

  “Have you ordered?” he interrupted. “For I fear you are correct, and I am most shamefully tardy. If we’re to keep our appointment at Tey Dor’s, we may not linger long over our meal.”

  “I asked for salads and soup and bread to come when you did,” Aelliana told him. “Felae assured me that there would be no difficulty.”

  Daav’s left eyebrow quirked. “Felae is it? Shall I be dismayed?”

  She knew that he was teasing her. The proper thing to do was to answer in kind; she had learned that. She had even learned a certain pleasure in matching his wit. Today, however, she was too full of her news—their news—and simply shook her head at him, much as Anne did to Shan, when she wished him to behave.

  “Cast into my place!” Daav mourned. “But at least I shall not starve.”

  “Pilots.” Felae deftly swung the tray ‘round, stopping it with a touch of his fingers. He sorted the plates and the utensils quickly before looking to Aelliana.

  “Will there be anything else, Pilot?” he asked respectfully.

  “Thank you, this looks to be everything,” she said, and smiled at him. “You were very quick to notice that we were ready!”

  The boy ducked his head.

  “That was my sister’s doing, Pilot. She pinged me from the reception station when your partner cleared the foyer.”

  “Excellent teamwork,” Daav murmured approvingly.

  Felae’s pale cheeks darkened slightly, with pleasure or with shyness, Aelliana was not able to discern. He bowed, straightening to catch the tray as it began to wander aside.

  “Enjoy your meal, Pilots,” he said and off he went, veering to the left in response to a high-held hand.

  “Bread, Pilot?” Daav murmured, reaching into the basket.

  Aelliana sighed in anticipation.

  “Bread would be good,” she said, and it would be, here at Ongit’s. Truly, she feared that she had acquired an addiction.

  He broke the loaf with strong fingers, put half on her plate, kept the other and took up his spoon.

  Aelliana reached—but no! Her news was too urgent. Even fresh-baked bread and Ongit’s vegetable chowder paled before it.

  “Daav,” she said, breathlessly, “I have something very important to tell you.”

  Halfway to his mouth, the spoon stopped, reversed itself and made a soft landing in t
he bowl. She looked up, seeing at once that she had his undivided attention.

  “Very important?” he repeated, head tipped to one side.

  “Extremely important,” she clarified. She reached into an interior pocket of her jacket and withdrew her prize.

  “Just before I left Binjali’s, I received this!” She held it up for him to see.

  Whatever Daav had been expecting, she sensed that it had not been an envelope, no matter how luxurious against the fingers, or how elegant the script that adorned it.

  “And that is?” he inquired politely.

  “A job offer!” she said triumphantly. Since he made no move to take the envelope, she opened it and slipped the single sheet of paper free.

  “We’re to take an antique dulciharp to Avontai … complete instructions and an introduction to be provided when we accept the commission.” She looked up from the letter. “Only think, Daav! We have a job offer.”

  “Allow me.” He plucked the paper from her fingers. “You are not eating, Pilot.”

  “The job—”

  “If the job cannot wait while the pilot takes care of her reasonable needs, it is not a job we may wish to accept,” he said quellingly.

  He recovered his soup spoon, and directed his attention to the letter.

  Sighing, Aelliana tasted the soup—and was abruptly quite hungry indeed.

  Daav read the letter—twice—while he pursued his own meal, then folded the paper and slipped it back into its envelope.

  “What do you think?” she asked, breaking off a piece of bread.

  “I think that we will have to fly like a Scout to make the proposed delivery date,” he answered, pulling the salad toward him.

  Aelliana moved her shoulders. “We could scarcely fly like anything else,” she pointed out. “The fee?”

  “Acceptable,” he allowed, throwing her a bright, unreadable glance. “Though I would insist upon a bonus, if we deliver early.”

  “Early?” She did the math in her head and laughed. “There is a very small chance of that, van’chela—even if we fly like two Scouts.”

  He smiled. “Then the client will not mind the presence of the clause, since it is so unlikely that we will collect.” He speared a bit of greenery; it broke with an audible crunch. “Besides, it is standard in our contract that we receive a three percent bonus for early delivery.”

  Aelliana considered him. “Is it?”

  “From this moment forward,” he said solemnly. “Pending the pilot-owner’s approval, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, with the irony he had not supplied. “It is the pilot-owner’s inclination to accept this offer of employment, unless my copilot has an objection, or knows ill of the prospective client?”

  The prospective client—Dath jo’Bern Clan Hedrede—was High House. Aelliana had set herself to memorizing the Houses and Lines, a task she found remarkably agreeable with young Shan as her study partner, and more often, her tutor. However, as she had also come to understand, through listening to Daav and Er Thom’s conversation, High House did not necessarily mean “wholly honorable.”

  “Your copilot sees no reason at all why we should not accept this offer of employment, to the enrichment of the ship and the enjoyment of the pilots. Let us by all means inform the client that she will be receiving our contract immediately.”

  She frowned.

  “Mr. dea’Gauss has our contract on file,” she said. “Is he likely to have put in such a clause on his own initiative? For I did not know to tell him.”

  “Doubtless Mr. dea’Gauss considers early delivery worth far more than three percent, pirate that he is. But! All may be known, as soon as we have a comm … “

  “A comm … ” she began, meaning to say that it would be a wonder, indeed, to find Felae or another server in this crush, but there. Daav had merely straightened; perhaps he lifted an eyebrow, but certainly not a hand, and here came the second Mr. Ongit himself, his blunt-featured face attentive.

  “Service, Pilots?”

  Daav glanced to her—which was of course, she reminded herself, correct. The captain ought to call regarding matters of the ship. She felt her cheeks warm.

  “If I might trouble the house for the use of a comm?” she murmured.

  “Certainly, Pilot. I will bring it myself.”

  Aelliana finished reading the contract Mr. dea’Gauss had obligingly sent to the screen. It seemed well-done enough to her, but, she reminded herself, only look how ably she had handled her employment contract.

  She glanced to Daav, who was sipping his wine, eyes pointed at a spot slightly above the comm, his face perfectly neutral. Almost, she put her hand on his arm; something—perhaps it was pride—restrained her. Instead, she cleared her throat.

  “Your opinion?” she asked.

  He glanced to her, one eyebrow up.

  “I see nothing egregious, but this is, after all, the pilot-owner’s decision.”

  She frowned. He knew she was inept, and depended upon his advice, she thought, feeling rather put out. Why did he withhold himself?

  The second eyebrow rose.

  “Have I displeased the pilot?” he murmured.

  Aelliana drew a breath—and let it out in a rush.

  “Only by being correct,” she said ruefully. “I need to learn how to be captain of my own ship—that is why we are undertaking this enterprise.”

  He gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “Being reminded of one’s duty is endlessly irritating, is it not?”

  She felt her mouth twist slightly—perhaps not quite a smile, but no longer a frown. “In fact, it is.”

  She touched the comm, recalling Mr. dea’Gauss from his exile off-screen.

  “The contract is well, sir, saving that we stipulate a three percent bonus for early delivery, rather than five, as it is written here. We are young in this trade, after all. Perhaps, after we are established, we might revisit the clause and raise our bonus to be more in keeping with our melant’i.”

  Mr. dea’Gauss inclined his head. “The change shall be made, Pilot, and the contract dispatched immediately by runner to Lady jo’Bern. We will of course hold the executed hard copy at this office. Do you also wish a copy?”

  She paused on the edge of saying “no,” considering what sorts of proofs might be required, Outworld.

  “Of your goodness, please send an electronic copy to Ride the Luck.”

  “It shall be done,” he promised. “Is there any other service I may perform for you?”

  “Not at the moment, I thank you.” She glanced to her copilot. “Daav, have you anything for Mr. dea’Gauss?”

  He glanced to the screen and inclined his head. “Only my thanks, as always, sir.”

  Mr. dea’Gauss bowed.

  “It is my pleasure to serve, your lordship,” he said formally.

  The screen went dark.

  “Put in my place twice in the course of a single meal,” Daav said mournfully.

  Aelliana turned the comm off, and glanced to him.

  “I think he meant respect, van’chela,” she said.

  His lips twitched. “Ah, do you?” he murmured, and turned his head.

  Aelliana followed his glance, immediately spying the red-haired pilot, who had apparently dismissed his comrades. He approached their table slowly, both hands plainly in sight, fingers slightly spread in the pilot’s sign for no danger here. His hands were innocent of rings, Aelliana saw, which was proof of nothing—Daav had used to leave off Korval’s Ring when he worked his shift at Binjali’s. This man’s pale fingers were unmarked, however, as if he disdained rings in general. His face was also pale, and his eyes were very blue.

  He was not, she realized with a slight shock, Liaden.

  “Clarence,” Daav said, his tone so even that Aelliana slipped her hand off the table and rested it on his knee.

  She tried to be stealthy, but the red-haired pilot saw the movement, and stopped where he was, though he partially blocked the aisle. The emotions she
received from Daav were—complex, even confused: wariness, affection, dismay, fellowship …

  ” … it’s good to see you,” Daav continued, in Terran.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” Pilot Clarence responded readily, and to Aelliana’s ear truthfully. He glanced at her meaningfully, as if chiding Daav for his choice of language.

  “Practice, I need,” she told him, in her laborious Terran.

  “In that case,” he answered gravely, “I’m honored.”

  Beside her, Daav shifted slightly; she received a flutter of good-humored fatalism from him, even as he swept his hand out to formally show her their guest.

  “Aelliana, this is Clarence O’Berin. You may hear him referred to as ‘Boss O’Berin,’ or ‘the Boss.’ “

  Aelliana inclined her head. “Clarence O’Berin, I am happy to meet you,” she said, which phrase in Terran had very nearly the same meaning as its counterpart, in High Liaden.

  “Not as happy as I am to meet Aelliana Caylon herself,” he answered gallantly. He glanced again to Daav. “I’m hoping the wine was acceptable?”

  It was, Aelliana realized with a start, a bi-level question. She had not thought that such complexities were possible in Terran! In the flush of discovery, she almost missed Daav’s reply.

  “Half the pilots on-port have already bought Aelliana wine. I’m only amazed to find you among the half yet to do so.” His tone was light now, as if he wished to set the other pilot at ease.

  “Not any more,” Clarence pointed out with a smile that perhaps betrayed relief.

  “Kind it was,” Aelliana said, feeling that she should do her bit for good will between pilots. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” the red-haired man assured her. He paused, considering her out of sharp blue eyes. “Word on the port is you’re looking to set up as courier.”

  She frowned slightly as she felt over the shape of the words. “Set up? Ah! I see. Yes, I am available as a courier pilot.” There came a thrill of … something … from Daav, but she was too focused on the conversation to sort it out properly.

  “I was a courier pilot, myself,” Clarence said. “It’s a grand life, but a dangerous one.”