by Sharon Lee
Terror lashed him, but was shunted aside as he lay his hand on her cooling breast; he grabbed and molded that terror in a way he had never been taught—and released it in a bolt of mind-searing energy.
He went to his knees with the shock of it; feeling the heart flutter beneath his hand, he began the sequence: press, release, press, release. The body caught the rhythm, lost it, caught weakly—and steadied. Breath began raggedly; the autonomic system glowed to full capacity. Shan withdrew his assistance, watching breathlessly as the body lived on without it.
He dragged himself to his feet, casting with Healer's senses for the thread that had anchored Priscilla to her body.
There was nothing—no strand, no echo of emotion. Priscilla was gone, as if she had never been.
Horror rose again, and he welcomed it, using the energy to cast his Seeking wider, touching over the patterns of all who remained within the Passage, searching for a hint, for a memory, for a chord that was Priscilla.
Lina's pattern held him longest, and then Gordy's—but Priscilla had not fled to her friend or to her foster son, and Shan sought further, opening himself as he had never done, reading as he knew he could not . . .
There! An echo, a glow of recall, a familiar, warm touch of comfort.
Following the hint, Shan encountered a scattering of human patterns, the random buzz that was the pattern of lower animals, the near-cogent hum of the norbears—the Pet Library, Priscilla's first refuge aboard the Passage, nearly eight Standards earlier. He narrowed his scan, searching minutely, and found her at last, hugged tight within the devoted, comforting pattern of Master Frodo, king of the norbears.
Recklessly Shan expended energy and found himself for a disorienting heartbeat not nearer the norbear and his beloved, but back in his body, slumped over Priscilla's, head pillowed on a breast that gently rose and fell, as if in sleep.
"No!" He wrenched himself away, and fled back toward the Pet Library, homing in on Master Frodo's pattern.
He extended a tendril of affection toward the tiny empath and received the usual happy greeting; but the creature's joy was somewhat mixed with puzzlement, so that he fed out, too, a line of comfort to the norbear before seeking Priscilla herself.
She was wrapped tightly behind an intense shield, reinforced at several points by the norbear's natural defenses.
Shan came as close as he dared, trying to recall exactly how he had bespoken Val Con, then once again expended energy and thought of calling her name. Priscilla!
The surface of her shield shimmered, a wisp of pattern escaping; then more slipped out, displaying recognition, quickly followed by dismay, fear, and love. He returned love, comfort, and security; he tried again to bespeak her, to urge her to leave Master Frodo's protections for his own, but she gave no sign that she heard.
Gently, infinitely patient, he kept sending love, comfort, and security, paying out a Healer's line of rescue, and finally he felt her first tenuous grip on the line strengthen and grow certain.
He ignored the strain and payed the line out, feeling her shed defenses, hesitate, and stand away from Master Frodo's shield, exposing the kernel of her being to the void.
Shan reached in some indefinable way, encircled his beloved, and shook them both loose of Master Frodo's influence.
He reentered his body with a suddenness that was agony, and Priscilla seemed to join him there for a moment before she fled, pouring across the physical link of their bodies until, with a shocking break, she left his awareness.
Vilt had come and gone, after administering vitamin shots and a very sound scolding for whatever it was that they had done to make each of them shed so much weight, so quickly. While he was scolding Shan, Priscilla had called Lina and asked her to go to Master Frodo with an extra ration of corn; then she had ordered two complete dinners to be delivered immediately to the captain's office.
The dinner itself was gone and Priscilla was sitting next to Shan on the couch, head resting on his shoulder as she thought about what he had told her. Finally she sighed and stirred, sitting up to look into his silver eyes.
"Shan?"
"Yes, Priscilla?"
"Why didn't you go to the Wizard's College in Solcintra?"
Surprise flickered. "Because I'm not a dramliza, Priscilla; I'm a Healer."
"Yes, but you see," she said, very gently, "Healers can't do the things you've been telling me you've done—that I know you've done, as I sit here in body before you! And no wizard that I know of—or witch, either—can speak directly, mind to mind."
He frowned. "Nonsense. You yourself left a dream with Val Con's lady—and she replied!"
"Yes, of course. But neither of us spoke directly to the other. Think how much easier it would have been, if that was a common sort of ability. Anthora might have spoken to Val Con months ago, relaying Nova's order to come home!"
He shifted uncomfortably, then finally grinned. "Well, what can my excuse be, except that neither Val Con nor I knew the thing was impossible, and so we had a very nice chat!" The grin faded. "More—he was receiving me as another Healer might: asked me to damp the emotional output. And I saw through his eyes!"
He straightened and grabbed her hand, his own eyes near-hypnotic in their intensity. "I saw a man with a gun come out of the crowd; saw him turn toward Val Con . . ." He slumped back. "Then we were cut loose."
"Where is he?" she asked, after the silence went beyond a dozen heartbeats.
Shan laughed sharply. "Refused to tell me! Stay away and stay safe, he said! No time to play melant'i games with me—by which I assume he means he speaks to me not as my brother, but as my future Delm! Hah! There's a change of song, Priscilla! And finally, just before he pushes us away and all but loses me my lifemate, he tells me to meet him. The man with the gun also has a spaceship, you see, so that all Val Con need do is murder him to be free to leave the planet at his leisure and go to Miri's people. Wherever that may be."
"Miri," Priscilla said. "It was Miri who cut us loose." She sighed and added, as the Goddess demanded truth to be told, "My fault."
"Your fault?" Shan blinked. "Miri shoves us out into the void, and it's your fault? Priscilla . . ."
"My fault," she repeated. "My pride. I was so sure I could keep you safe! And when you turned your attention to Val Con—you used energy at such a rate, I was frightened for you, for the link with the Passage. I gave you as much as I could, but it wasn't enough. You faded, and I nearly lost you, and I reached out, tapped the lifemate bridge between Val Con and Miri—there's so much energy there!" She paused, gripping his hand, the gem in his ring biting comfortably into her palm, and she gave thanks to the Goddess, who had tested her fully and allowed her to remain yet a time in the active universe.
"Miri felt the interference in the bridge," she told Shan. "I must have obscured her vision of Val Con—she must have thought him in great danger . . .dead. Think of the shock, when you are used to being in harmony with someone, when that person goes behind a wall and shuts you out . . ." She shook her head. "She's not trained—didn't know how to see me; didn't know how to seek. All she could do was thrust out with all the power of her will and try to reestablish her link with her lifemate."
"Casting us loose in the process," Shan finished, and sighed, "Formidable." He looked into her eyes. "But what you tell me indicates that you're not at fault—nor is Val Con, nor is Miri. The person who bears blame—for terrifying you; for all but killing you—is Shan yos'Galan, for his greed and the selfishness of his necessities."
"No—"
"Yes!" He touched her face and ran his fingers into her hair. "Priscilla, you must not allow me to endanger you! You see what I am—a man so lost to anything but his own desires that he may slay his lifemate!"
"Shan!" She drew herself up, hearing the resonance in her own voice. "That is untrue."
He started, stared at her face—Goddess alone knew what he saw there—then pushed forward, his arms going around her, his cheek against hers.
She held h
im, and he held her, for an unmeasured time; then she asked the question he must have been asking himself, over and over, since his conversation with his brother.
"Would Val Con kill a man for his ship?"
Shan stirred, sighing like a weary child. "yos'Pheliums have a peculiar passion for ships, Priscilla; family history is full of chancy deeds done for the sake of the things. Val Con?" He sat up and shook his head. "My brother tells a story of the time he had captured an Yxtrang—to talk with him, so he informed me, and have an open and equal exchange of views. He says that when they had finished their chat, he let the creature go, because there was no sense in killing him, though that argument has never stopped Yxtrang from killing as many non-Yxtrang as they chose."
He sighed again. "How do I know what he'll do, Priscilla? Would you let an Yxtrang go?"
VANDAR:
Winterfair
The agent came forward, confidence in every stride; Val Con slid toward the back of the food hall, slipped around the corner, and ran, nearly knocking over a young couple lost in each other against the back wall.
Back on the midway, he became one more of a knot of fairgoers traveling in the general direction of the Winter Train. An agent might attempt a kill under such conditions; the Loop indicted that this particular agent had an overriding need for more discreet manners.
His thoughts ran in layers: one relieved by the stabilization of Miri's song; another, an amalgam of the Scout and the agent, concerned with weighing the likelihood of an attack, with being sure he left as little trail as possible, and with watching for signs of pursuit.
Another layer of thought wrestled with the puzzle of the agent's ship: was it on-world or in orbit? Was the agent alone, or did another wait with the vessel? How to find it? How to obtain the ship keys? It was unlikely that the man on his trail would voluntarily answer those questions, though coercion might be brought to bear. Val Con nearly sighed. It was possible to kill an agent, though difficult. But it was immeasurably more difficult to capture one.
"Plan B," Shan had said. What could have gone wrong? Was the Department openly attacking Korval? The Juntavas . . .He closed off that particular layer of thought. It merely distracted and brought unresolved emotions to the fore, when he needed all of his energy to preserve his life and that of his lifemate—and to gain that ship!
The crowd changed direction; he exchanged it for another, checking his song of her to make certain that Miri was still in the vicinity of the train.
The agent was good and knew that he was good; he was perhaps just a shade overconfident. The general speed with which he moved argued enhanced reactions—stimulants—which meant he would tire more quickly, over an extended period of time. Neither factor was significant in the short run. That he wore body armor indicated that he had studied Val Con as Val Con had studied his own targets in the past. Had he studied enough to know of the other blade—the blade Edger had given him? The possession of a weapon that could slip through body armor as easily as through water significantly altered the situation in Val Con's favor—and was negated by the burning necessity to keep the man alive long enough to learn about the ship.
The group he was traveling with turned off. He continued toward Miri at a somewhat quicker pace, the skin prickling at the back of his neck, while the Loop gave .99 surety that the agent was following behind.
sig'Alda identified the tread of the shoe, lost it, found it, and lost it again, which reminded him that he was chasing no mundane Terran politico but a trained agent.
An agent could not depend on luck. Already, though, he had been lucky in the extreme, for had the knife struck a bare two fingers higher, his body would even now be cooling in the dark shed. The speed! The anticipation! One moment to be beyond even the control of his own thoughts—and the next to conceive and execute that attack!
His chest hurt from the knife's strike; no doubt he was bruised. That such excellence should be lost to the Department! sig'Alda sighed in irritation. Regret of that had been the source of the second introduction of luck into his mission: that he should have had his target within sight and failed to neutralize him; that he should, instead, have offered the choice, already refused . . .Had yos'Phelium been carrying a gun, or even another knife, that mistake would have been fatal, too.
His quarry was ahead, sighted for a half second.
Ah, but it would not do to catch him too soon, would it? In the open light, with a crowd around?
sig'Alda slowed, allowing the other a more respectable lead. The Loop gave yos'Phelium a slight edge, if they fought hand to hand immediately. Barely considering the necessity and never doubting the wisdom of it, he took his third dose of accelerant.
Why was yos'Phelium running that way? Why not back toward the area containing the draft animals and vehicles, to escape to the larger countryside? Why—but wait. He had found the Terran in this general direction—at the base of the hill, by the transmitter; and he had originally found yos'Phelium rushing in that same direction. Now, given options, the man broke again for—
The transmitter. sig'Alda smiled. It fit one of the models perfectly. The songs had been a signal, deliberately timed, meant to be received by one who knew when and where to listen. The commander's words came back to him, saying that only Clan Korval might mount a military threat to the Department. Suppose the Dutiful Passage, large as a battleship, stood off-planet even now?
The Loop produced percentages that he did not like. That the songs had been deliberate signals—.97. That they had been prearranged and intended for a particular listener—.93. That they had reached their goal? No percentage.
Suppose they had not? Or that they had, and that his own advent had required a change in plans, which they were already radioing into space?
The Loop supported the hypothesis.
He ran, heedless of complaints, neglecting to follow Val Con yos'Phelium, now that he knew where he must be going. sig'Alda would be waiting at the transmitter when the traitor arrived.
Miri marked Val Con's progress. He was heading for the train on the far side of the depot, or for her, maybe—it was a little early to tell about details. He was not running a race anymore, which was good, and his pattern had steadied down after going through all those loopy changes.
As she trudged through the snow she wondered what her pattern looked like just then. Must be shot all to hell, what with the shock of that Liaden . . .
She squelched the thought, the packet of Cloud riding like a fifty-pound weight in her pocket.
Val Con had been running away from something, but she had seen nothing in his pattern that made her think he had killed anybody. That meant the skypilot was still at large, either walking toward her with Val Con, or maybe coming after him. Which meant— Ah, hell, Robertson, who you trying to kid? she demanded of herself. You don't know what it means. She saw the train, steam pouring from the boilers that fed the generators, and heard the occasional hiss of valves above the constant rumble of the huge belts.
What an arrangement they were. Some kind of cloth and rubber getup, looping between the big power takeoff reel, the generator, and the flywheel. Between them all, they fed the electric power from the generator to an enormous set of old-fashioned wet-chemical batteries on the railcar in front. The radio station drew its power from the storage batteries, which made sense: If the belt broke or the steam went down they would still have power enough to broadcast until the monster could be restarted.
Miri shook her head. Who would have thought that something so primitive could be so complicated?
One of the cars way in the back of the train was a studio, duplicating the setup in the music hall. There was no longer any need to invade that, since they had attracted the attention of someone with a ship. All according to plan.
She sniffed. Carpe diem, eh, Robertson? Now what?
Up the hill, limned by the reflected glow of the main fair lights, Miri saw someone going quickly toward the train.
She frowned and checked her pattern of V
al Con. Then she faded carefully between the heavy couplings between two of the cars, watching the skypilot approach and taking a rapid inventory of her person, looking for something more potent than the skinny stick-knife and a handful of true-silver coins.
VANDAR:
Winterfair
"Cory!"
Val Con continued hurriedly forward, ignoring the call.
"Cory!" The voice insisted, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a man moving clumsily to head him off. The man was tightly wrapped against the evening chill, and Val Con frowned, then caught the details of nose and chin: Hakan's father.
He waved and turned his steps slightly, as if to pass on by.
"Wait!" Zamir Meltz called, disastrously skidding on a patch of ice. He waved his arms, tottered, and muttered "Thank you," as Val Con caught his arm and held him upright.
"There you are, sir . . ." Val Con helped the older man to safer ground and stepped back, only to find his arm caught in a surprisingly strong grip.
"At least give me a chance to thank you—and to apologize."
Val Con sighed and forced himself to stay within the man's grasp. "I do not—"
Zamir Meltz smiled thinly. "I wish to thank you for your friendship and your partnership with Hakan. I've never seen him with so much energy, so many ideas! And I wish to apologize because the judges have done a stupid thing. They put rules before music—before art! I helped elect those judges, and I see I made bad choices." He bowed his head.
Val Con shifted, seeking Miri in his head. "Zamir, it is a difficult thing that happened. Miri is—distressed. She feels that she led the band wrongly when she called for that last song. That she played the mood of the crowd perfectly—that the performance itself was correct—is something you and I and Hakan know." He shifted again and, with relief, felt his arm loosed. "I am going now to Miri, to try to show her the difference between judges and art."