by Sharon Lee
The king gestured, and the colorless zhena stepped forward to offer Zhena Trelu a rolled tube of paper tied with a white ribbon. "Your charter," she said in a loud, colorless whisper.
The old woman stood still a moment, tube held between her palms. Then she said, firmly, "Thank you, your Majesty," made another of those stupid, dipping bows, and walked back to her seat.
Miri felt like applauding. Instead, she looked over at her partner, who smiled and squeezed her fingers.
"Nervous, Miri?" he asked in soft Benish.
She blinked. "What of?"
His shoulders jerked, and she opened her mouth to remind him that they had promised Kem that they would be dignified, which probably meant not laughing in public.
"Will Hakan Meltz please stand forward," the man with the list ordered. "Will Meri and Corvill Robersun stand forward."
Val Con squeezed her hand again and slid his fingers away as he stepped into the aisle. She followed, wondering at the size of the crowd that had turned out for the giving of medals and proclaiming of heroes. Val Con reached the edge of the cleared circle, paused until she gained his side, and they walked the rest of the way together.
Hakan was before the king's chair, bowing low and managing it more creditably than Miri would have expected. He straightened and was moved to one side by the colorless zhena, who motioned to Val Con.
The Liaden stepped forward, Miri right beside him, then stopped and bowed the bow between equals, graceful and brief.
Miri blinked—equals?—and reproduced the bow to an inch. Straightening, she saw the colorless zhena staring at her, seemingly about to speak, a bright blotch of color decorating each pale cheek. At a wave from the king, the woman swallowed her words and stepped back, her face still registering shock.
"For extraordinary service to the Kingdom of Bentrill," the king said in the more regal of his voices, "it is hereby declared that Hakan Meltz, Meri Robersun, and Corvill Robersun are Heroes of the Realm. As such they are entitled to and shall receive a sum of money equal to the present value of a quarterweight of hontoles.
"In addition to this, Meri and Corvill Robersun, natives of Porlint, are made by this decree Citizens of Bentrill." He stopped, brown eyes vague, apparently having forgotten the next part.
Good, Miri thought. No medals. I wonder what's a hontoles? She shot a quick glance at Hakan's face and noted the slightly glazed look around the blue eyes. Could be we're rich, she theorized. Whatever that means.
The king had remembered the rest of his lines.
"On behalf of the people of the nation of Bentrill, I wish to thank each of you for your valor and your courage in the thwarting of this danger to our realm. To this I add my personal gratitude and beg you to understand that my audience room is open to you at a moment's notice." He smiled vaguely and waved at the colorless zhena.
Hakan got his medal first—twice as large as Zhena Brigsbee's, or even Borril's—and made of bright gilt. He was also given a pouch, which crackled when he took it.
Val Con was next. The look Miri slanted sideways showed his face smooth and formal, his shoulders level. He stared past the woman pinning the medal to the front of his new white shirt and took the crinkly pouch without deigning to look down.
The zhena approached Miri with wariness not untouched with outrage. Resisting the temptation to stick her tongue out, Miri adopted Val Con's strategy instead. Fixing her eyes on a point just over the woman's shoulder, she failed to notice the affixing of the medal and acknowledged the pouch only by the finger-twitch necessary to keep it in hand.
The zhena stepped back to her place by the king's chair, and Miri sighed softly. That was over . . .
"Meri Robersun, Corvill Robersun: Raise your right hands," the list-keeper boomed.
What? But Val Con had already raised his hand to the height of shoulder, so she shifted her pouch to the other hand and did the same.
The king levered out of his chair and came forward, a plump, homely man with sad brown eyes and graying brown hair.
"With the power vested in me as sovereign of this State of Bentrill I do hereby give you the oath." He paused to raise his own hand, and when he spoke again, his voice was vibrantly clear.
"Do you, Meri Robersun, Corvill Robersun, swear to uphold the laws of this land, obey the king's lawgivers, respect the king's sovereignty, and fight, if called upon, to defend this country from invasion or rebellion?"
There was a short pause, then Val Con's voice replied quietly, "Yes."
The king's eyes moved.
"Yes," Miri assured him.
He smiled. "I do hereby declare you sworn citizens of Bentrill, having all rights and obligations pertaining thereto." He smiled again. "You may lower your hands. Come forward now."
They did, side by side and silent. The king extended his right hand and touched Miri on the right shoulder, then repeated the gesture for Val Con.
"My personal thanks, as well. This was not your country; you did not have to fight. You could as easily have run away and allowed the invasion force to proceed into Gylles. Bentrill is proud to add such people to her citizenry. If all goes as it should, neither you nor any other citizen of Bentrill will ever find it necessary to fight again. War is brutal and, thankfully, not common. But we must always be prepared." He smiled again, but this time it did not reach his eyes. "Thank you."
He turned and sat down. Val Con bowed, Miri bowed, and Hakan bowed, then they, too, returned to their seats.
DUTIFUL PASSAGE
He sat in the dimness of her quarters, screenglow liming stark cheekbones and kissing frosty hair with gold.
Priscilla shivered, though the air was not cold. She shivered because the inner warmth she knew as Shan was gone and all her attempts to read him slid off a cool, mirroring shield—the Wall, he called it, behind which a Healer might retreat to rest and regroup.
And to hide.
She could pull him out of it, of course—she was that strong. But it was not a thing that was done, to strip another of his protections and rout him from his safe place, simply because one was cold and alone and frightened in his absence.
"Shan?"
Nothing. He sat and stared at the screen and barely seemed to breathe.
Priscilla went quickly forward and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Shan."
He started, then caught himself and deliberately leaned back, head against her hip. "Good evening, Priscilla."
"What is it?" she demanded, desperately wanting to scan him, yet determined not to try it.
He waved a hand screenward. "A message from the First Speaker, to the point, as always."
She frowned at the amber letters. "Plan B? What does that mean?"
He sighed, and she felt the tightness of the shoulder muscles under her fingers.
"Plan B . . ." He paused, then continued, very carefully. "It means that the Dutiful Passage is from this moment forward acknowledged to be exclusively on the business of Clan Korval. It means that we unship our weapons and free ourselves of cargo. It means that other Korval ships, where possible, will take over parts of our route."
He shifted, then stilled. "It means that Korval is in deadly danger, that the First Speaker has evacuated the Clan from Liad; that the Nadelm may be untrustworthy; that my brother—my brother!" His voice broke, and he bowed his head, muscles bunching as Priscilla grabbed and shook.
"Shan, your brother is well!"
He craned his head to look into her face and raised a hand to her cheek. "Is he?"
"You know it." She stared at him, reading the anguish in his eyes and face. "We could both go," she offered tentatively, knowing that she was just strong enough to carry him so far, "and you could read him yourself. He might hear your thoughts more clearly than mine."
He gave a gasp of laughter. "And expose captain and first mate to unknown danger when we are poised on the edge of a war? Later, Priscilla—and send that we find them in body before."
"We will find them," she said, hearing a certain deepeni
ng of her voice.
Shan heard it, too. "A prophecy, Priscilla? We'll hope it's as true as the others you've given."
He leaned forward sharply, clearing the screen with a handsweep, spun in the chair, and stood, facing her. "Call an assembly of the crew for Second Hour; attendance mandatory; lattice-crew to attend via comm."
"Yes, Captain." She bowed obedience and respect.
He smiled then and shook his head, his Wall shimmering and resolidifying. "I love you, Priscilla."
DUTIFUL PASSAGE
They had shed cargo at Arsdred; more at Raggtown; still more at Wellsend, so they came into Krisko orbit lean and sleek, more like a cruiser in outline than a tradeship.
They had shed crew, as well. A few went because their Clan did not enjoy a sufficiently close relationship with Korval; others, because they were too important to Line and House to be put into the way of another Clan's danger. Most stayed—Terrans with shrugs for incomprehensible Liaden politics—though the captain had urged all to leave.
Priscilla had stayed, and Gordy, though Shan's urging in that quarter had approached actual commands; and she sighed now as she walked toward the captain's office. Shan himself had taught her the subtleties of melant'i, so she was alive to the knowledge that, while the captain might order her, Shan could not. And the captain would not order her gone: she was far too valuable a first mate. That did not, of course, mean that Shan had to like it.
She laid her hand upon the palm-plate, and his door slid open; he glanced up from his screen as she came into the room.
"Good day, Priscilla."
"Good day, Captain."
His mouth quirked, his pattern registering a certain wistfulness. "Still angry with me, love?"
She came forward and held out her hand—and nearly sagged in relief when he took it. "I thought you were angry with me."
"Only terrified for you," he said, and she read the truth of that deep within him. "It would seem to be my time to be terrified for those I hold dear." He pointed at the screen. "I have a pin-beam from Anthora."
"Is she well?" Priscilla asked, wondering at several new resonances within him, at a loss to ascribe them place or purpose in the matrix of the man she loved.
"Well?" Shan laughed shortly. "She reports repelling invaders from Trealla Fantrol's very door and begs my permission, as her Thodelm, to activate the primary defense screens—which she confesses she has already done. She also lets me know, most properly, that she and several of the cats plan to relocate to Jelaza Kazone for a time."
Priscilla sank to the arm of a chair, staring at him. "Anthora is still on Liad? But I thought—"
"That all were safely away? So did I. But my sister informs me that she has stayed to guard the Tree," he said with no little bitterness.
The Tree—the living symbol of Korval's greatness, hundreds of years old, a quarter-mile high and still growing. Priscilla forced her mind to work, to consider the use of symbology and the political advantage of leaving a caretaker in residence. Liadens had a long history of subtle politics, and she knew from her days in Temple the power of a long-held, potent symbol. She glanced up to find Shan watching her closely.
"Jelaza Kazone," she said slowly, feeling her way, "is the Delm's Own House—the original Clan House, you'd said. And Val Con once told me that the older parts are underground, so it's probably better fortified than Trealla Fantrol. If Anthora's purpose in remaining is to guard the tree, it makes good sense for her to be with it, at Jelaza Kazone."
"So she says," he replied dryly, and she caught a flare of something bright and hard and potent before it was skillfully leashed and subsumed within the rest of his pattern.
"In light of my sister's report of invaders with murderous intent," he said after a moment, "the captain has a task for the first mate."
She inclined her head and awaited the captain's instruction, dread coming seemingly from nowhere and lodging deep in her stomach.
"You will present the captain's compliments to Cargo Master yo'Lanna," Shan said softly, "and ask him to attend me here immediately. You will then yourself attach the four pods to be delivered at fifteen-oh-six, one to each of the prime articulation points, and lock them into place. Screen readout will indicate when the automatic system has meshed with the main computer. You will then return to me here."
"Weapons pods." She stared at him, the dread turning to fear. "The Passage has weapons, Shan—"
"It will now have its full complement." He shifted, avoiding her eyes, though he did not shield his inner self, for which she thanked the Goddess. "Anthora reports assassins calling at the front door, Priscilla. What would you have me do?"
He sighed sharply when she did not answer and raised his eyes to hers. "We are on the business of Clan Korval, as you heard me explain before the crew and privately. You see now what it means—what it can mean." He leaned forward, hand extended, light glittering off the Master Trader's ring. "We are at war, Priscilla! Or may be, soon. Will you go to safety?"
"Safety?" She shook her head, ignoring his hand. "The weapons—here. But you only just received Anthora's 'beam. You came here to load weapons."
"No." He sat back and rubbed the tip of his nose. "Priscilla, Korval is an old Clan and a wealthy one. We have warehouses everywhere. There are several weapons caches. It happens that Krisko houses one." He paused, then added, with a peculiar shimmer deep within his pattern, "By the luck."
"All right." She slid to her feet and bowed. "The first mate goes to fulfill the captain's orders."
She was two steps toward the door before he called her; she turned to find him standing before the desk, both hands held out to her.
"Paranoia, Priscilla—is that the right word? Korval . . ." He hesitated. "For centuries, since Cantra yos'Phelium brought the escape ship to Liad, the Delms of Korval have acted and implemented policy for Korval alone. We gather ships, for escape, for battle. We gather money, power, influence. Only a pilot may be Delm. We breed for pilots, Priscilla! To give the greatest chance of successful escape to the greatest number of Korval, should necessity arise. Renegades, even the most proper of us."
She came back to him, extending lines of comfort and love that went unacknowledged in his urgency to tell her.
"And you," he said, catching her hands and staring into her eyes. "Protect the Tree, you said, as if you had heard it from birth, as we did . . ." He shook his head. "Cantra yos'Phelium swore an oath to protect the Tree—Liad exists because a mad outlaw needed a safe place for a dead man's plant! Jelaza Kazone—Jela's Fulfillment! Generations dead and still Jela's damn Tree—" He dropped her hands and stepped back, outwardly calm, though she still read the tearing urgency within.
"Do you know what the captain's prime mandate is, should the ship be breached or need to be abandoned?" he asked.
"No." She projected calm, forcefully, swallowing amazement as he batted it aside as easily as a kitten batting away a ball.
"I'm to go to a certain safe place and remove the stasis box therein, taking it with me to safety. If it should happen that there is no room in the escape pod for the captain, he should hand over the stasis box to another and secure that person's oath to stand guard over the box until one of Korval should come and relieve him of it." Shan tipped his head. "Guess what's in the box, Priscilla."
She did not have to guess. "Seedlings."
"Seedlings." He nodded. "Every Korval ship has a stasis box; every captain has the same mandate. The Passage, as Korval's flagship, carries, in addition, several cans of seeds, as well as cloned genetic material, in the storage hold of each escape pod."
He reached forward and cupped her face in his big hands. "Priscilla, by the gods—by your own Goddess—go to safety. I beg you."
"I love you," she said, and saw the tears start to his eyes, just before he closed them and dropped his hands. She reached to touch his face. "Shan?"
The silver eyes opened, reflecting the exhaustion she read in his spirit. "Yes, Priscilla?"
"The captain g
ave me instructions. I—is it still required that I fulfill them?"
"Yes." He hesitated, then took her hand and looked closely into her eyes. "Understand that you are chosen, Priscilla, rather than Ken Rik—even though Line yo'Lanna and Clan Justus are both closely allied with us—because it is a more proper use of melant'i that one of Korval set the weapons in place and make us ready to meet necessity." He paused, and it was just possible to read his love through her own astonished joy. "With your permission, I will explain this to Ken Rik. I'll meet you in the cafeteria on the next hour, and we'll announce our lifemating to the crew."
She forced herself into Serenity and regarded him dispassionately. "This is for protection, of course."
"Of course," Shan said with a glimmer of his usual humor. "But don't, I pray you, Priscilla, ask me whether it's yours or mine."
VANDAR:
Winterfair
The chill in the air was not entirely due to the weather. Even Hakan felt it: the stares and glares, the change in conversational tone when they entered an area.
For the most part the huge room was busy. Lamps and candles were everywhere, illuminating people cheerfully working their way toward the exhibitions and competitions that would follow the fair's opening march. There was a darker corner at the back of the practice hall, toward which Cory seemed bent. As they circled, Hakan occasionally exchanged words with friends, and there was hesitation in the greetings, an awkwardness in the banter.