by Sharon Lee
Before them spread the glittering expanse of Landomist Port. Jela looked to Tor An.
"Where's your ship, Pilot?"
"Near, I'd think," the boy said, standing forward briskly enough despite his pale face. "Ship's fund was scarcely able to bear the cost of a berth in the private yards..." Eyes squinted against the light, he surveyed the situation, then raised a hand, pointing.
"There! The Dejon Forty-Four in the third six-row. You can see the star-drake—"
Jela looked. The ship was old, but in good repair. Sharpening his eyesight somewhat, he made out the words Light Wing, painted in bold bright letters along her side, and beneath, Alkia Trade Clan, Ringstars. The sigil, up near the nose, was a sinuous, winged reptile, a bright, stylized star held in each fore-claw.
"Let's go," he said, and took a breath, trying to ease the dull ache in his breast. She deserved better of him, he thought, and another image formed inside his head; the slim, lethal golden dragon the tree had settled on as a description for Cantra, riding the high currents, questing and calling. He closed his eyes—sent a thought of Rool Tiazan receiving the linked pods which had sealed their alliance.
Again, the golden dragon, alone and calling for her absent comrades.
She took rear-guard, he thought, and carefully built another picture: Wellik as they'd last seen him, dour and tall; a single brown star very nearly the color of his skin tatooed high on his left cheek. The tree projected interest. Encouraged, Jela continued with his picture, building the rest of Wellik's office, star map and briefing table—and there, right next to the captain's own desk, the tree, sitting honored and safe—
The office dissolved; Wellik shifted form and became Jela himself, covered in sweat and sand, battle-blade to hand, cutting a trench 'round the tree's scrawny trunk. He bent down, got his hands under the bulb, heaved—and felt the strength of those roots, gripping the planet tight; no effort of his could possibly move it...
"Captain Jela?" Tor An yos'Galan's voice was tentative, as well, Jela thought wryly, it should be. He opened his eyes and manufactured a smile.
"Sorry, Pilot. Truth told, my passage was a little rough, too."
The boy's tight face eased a little. "I understand," he said.
"Right. Let's go."
* * *
SHE HAD DONE THE best she could to bind her wounds, cutting strips from tay'Welford's robe for bandages. Still, she was none too steady on her feet as she made her way down the quiet hallway, until she found a service door.
It opened to her palm, and as luck would have it, the corridor beyond was empty. Not that it was likely to remain that way. Painfully, she pushed onward, breathing shallowly and ignoring the ragged blackness at the edge of her vision.
Past the recycling room she went without encountering anyone, though she heard voices as she approached a branching of the hall. She proceeded slowly and peered 'round the corner, spying a group of the Tower's tiny servitors pushing trays and serving carts away from her down the right-hand hall. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing until she could no longer hear them, then straightened and went on at a jog, bearing left, following the gleam of track set into the floor.
Can't be far, she thought. Can't be far. Her undamaged hand moved, groping in her sash for—for... But Jela would have it, she thought, as her feet tangled and she fell hard against the wall. She got herself sorted and her feet moving in synch again, walking, now, just that, and all but unconscious until a bit of cool breeze against her slashed cheek woke her, and she smiled.
The hall curved gently, widening into a work area. Empty delivery carts lined one side of the room; a cargo pallet, half unloaded, was in the center, attended by several of the Tower's busy servitors. Another pallet, empty, was poised on the track by the sealed hatch, waiting to take the ride back to port for more goods.
She staggered forward, ignoring the high-pitched shouts and the scurrying of the servitors. One got between her and the pallet, and she pushed him out of the way, feeling a distant pang as he fell and cried out.
More shouts; she ignored them, even when voices not so high nor so childlike joined in. She extended a hand and hit the manual trigger a good one before she collapsed onto the pallet, bruising her slashed face, and wrapping her hands around the lifting bars as the hatch opened and the powerful suction grabbed the pallet and threw it at the port.
* * *
"Your contact," Jela said to Tor An yos'Galan, "is Captain Wellik, at the garrison on Solcintra." He put a gentle hand on the boy's arm. "I know you have no love of soldiers, especially the X Strains, but I personally vouch for Wellik. He'll see and hear you."
"If," the pilot said, voice taut, "I am allowed to see him, rather than being summarily shot."
"He'll see you," Jela said, as if there were no doubt of it, "because you'll have the tree with you. Wellik will recognize it, and—"
A series of pictures flared inside his head, hard enough to hurt, strong enough to obscure the sight of the ships and the port around him: The golden dragon, voice faint, calling against the fall of night. From the darkening sky, the black dragon swooped, behind and beneath her, bearing her up, moving them both toward a distant cliff-edge and the tree growing there, the scent of seed-pods clear and enticing on the wind...
"M. Jela are you well?" the old scholar asked sharply.
He shook the pictures out of his head, and blinked the port back into existence.
"Disagreement among the troop," he muttered, and took a hard breath. "Pardon, sir. It's been a long campaign."
"Longer for some than for others," the old man said tartly. "If you are wounded, sir, you endanger the mission by concealing it."
Wounded? Almost, Jela laughed. In his head, the golden dragon drooped, wings dangerously close to the uneasy surface of the sea...
He took another breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest, and looked again to Tor An yos'Galan, who was watching him with a startlingly sapient gaze.
"Perhaps," the boy said softly, "I will not have the tree with me?"
Jela sighed. "You'll have a token, instead. And Wellik will see you, Pilot. My word on it."
"Ah." There was a small pause, then. "Very well. Let us have it that Captain Wellik will accept the token and consent to see me. I am to tell him—?"
"You are to tell him that Jela sends him the master of the equations, who is sworn to aid us in our project. You will say that Jela asks him to turn over to you the full amount Wellik owes from the last card game he played with Jela. You will then do as he instructs in regard to the master, after which, having been paid—which you will be!—you're free to pursue your own life."
They were at the base of old Light Wing's ramp. Jela held up a hand to stop the carry-chair and fixed Tor An with a stern eye.
"Do you agree to this commission, Pilot?"
The boy sighed, looked to the old master, and sighed again. "I agree," he said, tiredly. "But what of you—and the tree?"
"I—" Jela stopped. Duty, he thought—and shook his head. "I'm going back to the tower."
Tor An's lips parted, eyes taking fire. "To bring away Scholar tay'Nordif?"
"If I can," he said reluctantly, and looked to the old man, expecting—ridicule, perhaps, or censure.
Liad dea'Syl inclined his white head. "We all must do as our heart compels us," he said, softly. "Allow me to lend you this chair, M. Jela. It can move much faster than a man afoot, even an M Series soldier at a run."
"Thank you," Jela whispered, and stepped 'round to the back of the chair. For the tree, he formed an image of Wellik as they had last seen him, holding in his wide palm a leaf from the tree. He raised a hand; two leaves detached themselves as his fingers touched them.
"Thank you," he whispered again, and carried the tokens to Tor An yos'Galan.
"Now, M. Jela," Master dea'Syl said, as Jela carried him up the ramp to Light Wing's hatch, "pray attend me. The shortcut, as you style it, has been deactivated. However, there
is still a quicker way to the tower than the slideways. Speed you to the market section, yonder—" he pointed out the long line of gleaming warehouses, bristling supply tubes and conveyers—"and follow the signs for the tradesmen entrances. Each tower has its own entrance, and you will be quickly brought to the Osabei dock by this means. After—you will contrive, I am certain."
"Thank you, sir." Ahead, Tor An yos'Galan, the cat draped like a stole 'round his neck, triggered the hatch and proceeded them into his ship—Captain's Privilege. Jela carried the scholar within, through the lock and down the short hall to the piloting room.
"Here," Tor An said, folding out the jumpseat. "I regret there's nothing better, Master, but—"
"But a singleship is meant to be guided by one pilot's hand," the old man finished. "My piloting days were long ago, child. The jumpseat is well enough for me; I will enjoy observing you at your art."
Jela placed the old man carefully, stood back, saluted—
"Go, M. Jela!" Master dea'Syl snapped.
"I'm gone!" Jela responded—and he was.
* * *
THE SMALY TUBE SPAT her pallet out; it lofted and slammed onto the feeder-tracker, the mags locking solid. Groaning, she raised her head, saw the stacker up ahead, opened her hands, slid off the pallet and dropped through the gap in the mags. She heard shouts, distantly. Then her head smacked 'crete and she didn't hear anything else.
* * *
EYES NARROWED AGAINST the wind of their passage, Jela raced the carry-chair toward the gleaming line of warehouses. The tree, lashed to the cargo-plate, bent and danced, leaves fluttering like scarves. He caught the edge of an image of storm, boiling clouds and driving rain, and an echo of jubilation.
Speeding, he reviewed his plan, such as he had one. First, to the trade transport, then to Osabei Tower. After he was in Osabei Tower—there were too many unknowns to usefully plan. The main objective—to recover Cantra yos'Phelium or, as he couldn't quite bring himself to believe, though it was the most probable—her body. And if he had to take Osabei Tower down stone by stone to do it—well, he'd been ripe for a fight for days...
He was among the warehouses now, pushing the carry-chair for all it could give him—and more. His eye snagged on the pointer to the tradesmen walks, and he whipped the little craft around, dodging between a robofreighter and a port ambulance, while the tree cheered rain-lash and lightning.
Inside, the path went along a catwalk, to keep casual strollers out of the line of work, Jela thought, and sent the chair up the ramp at a brisk clip.
From the tree, a urgent sending—the golden dragon, one wing folded beneath her, blood bright against gleaming scales—
Jela braked and looked down, sharpening his vision on the figures in medic 'skins bent over a—blood on her hair, blood on her face, blood soaking her tattered robe—
"Cantra!" he yelled and threw the chair into reverse.
* * *
"What're they thinking of up there?" The shift boss yelled at Jela. "She came through the smaly! Damn lucky she didn't get crushed, or knocked loose or—"
Jela pushed past the man, as gently as he could, "Hazing," he said shortly. "The scholars are having a party."
"Some party," the lead medic muttered. She glanced up at him, eyes widening, then quickly down again.
He looked at Cantra's bruised and bloody face. Still breathing; and the medics had quick-patched the cuts. What other damage there might be—
"Took a pretty bad knock when she fell off the stacker," the lead medic muttered, not looking at him. "Her good luck she did, too, before she got crushed. Got some funny readings on the scan..." A pause, before she raised her head and looked at him again. "You have an interest in this case?" she asked. "Sir."
He looked at her, seeing the signs now—this one had served, and knew all too well what an M Series soldier looked like.
"I'm prepared to relieve you," he said, meeting her eyes.
"Right then." She motioned to her mate, who began to pack up the kit, his head also studiously bent. The lead stood and faced him, keeping her eyes pointed at a spot just beyond his shoulder.
"There's paperwork, and a fee for port services," she said, stiff-faced. "You settle up at the portmaster's office."
"I'll do that," he said insincerely, and turned to make the necessary adjustments to the carry-chair, reformatting the seat into a stretcher, that he could steer by standing on the folded out booster step.
"Let's get her on the stretcher..."
"Hold on, here!" shouted the shift boss. "You just can't send her—suppose she dies? Or this—person—did you even ask for ID?" he demanded of the lead medic.
She sighed, jerking a chin at her partner to carry the kit out to the ambulance, while Jela webbed Cantra into the stretcher.
"As it happens, I was on-call two nights ago when this trader got into a little discussion with the wrong people on the old port," she said tiredly. "I've got his particulars on file." She pulled a portable unit from her belt and held it up, one hand on her hip and a frown on her face. "Want to see?"
The shift boss considered her, and—wisely, in Jela's opinion—decided not to pursue the matter.
"Nothing to me," he said. "I just don't need any trouble, is all."
"Right," the lead medic said, snapping the portable back onto her belt. "None of us needs trouble." She sent a quick, speaking glance to Jela.
"None of us," he agreed. "Thank you, medic." He stepped onto the carry chair platform, reached for the stick, and got them gone.
* * *
THEY WERE AT THE weaving—delicate work requiring concentration, a light touch and strong protections. It was not enough to be merely invisible, of course; the Iloheen would suspect so simple a gambit. No, it was necessary to seem to be part of the fabric of space itself, and in order to make such a disguise convincing, it was also necessary to partake of the surrounding space and integrate it into their essences.
It had been his lady who devised the way of it, meaning only to grant them protection from the Iloheen. For his part, he had merely noted that sharing their essences thus created them less like the poor limited creatures of flesh whose form they mimicked, and more like unto that which he had been before his capture and enslavement.
So it was that the Great Weaving arose from the simple necessity to hide. There were but thirteen dramliza at the work, for it required not only skill, and daring, and a desire above all else to see the Iloheen annihilated, but the willingness to accept a total melding of subordinate and dominant, and a phase-state which would be like no other—
The ley lines flared and spat. Lute extended his will, seeking to soothe the disturbance, but the lines writhed, stretched to the breaking point of probability, mixing what was with what could be, shuffling the meanings of life and death—and across the limitless tracks of space, at the very edge of his poor diminished perception, a Shadow was seen, and the awful flare of dark energies.
The Iloheen! he sent, and threw himself back from the weaving, seeking his lady.
Here. Her thought was a lodestone, guiding him. He manifested beside her within the pitted rock that was their base, and spread his defenses, shielding her behind the rippling rainbow of his essence, as the Shadow spread, sending the lines into frenzy. The asteroid phased wildly, becoming in rapid succession a spaceship, a hippogriff, a snail. Lute rode the storm of probability, felt his Lady take up the burden of maintaining their defense, and reached out, daring to snatch the lines that passed most nearly and smooth them into calmness. A small circle only he produced—enough to draw upon, not so much as to elicit the Shadow's notice.
Behind their defenses, he felt his lady busy at some working of her own—and pause, waiting, the last link only unjoined, or he knew her not, awaiting clarity.
Out there, across the seething chaos of probability, the Shadow coalesced, shrank—and was gone.
Lute waited. The ley lines slowly relinquished their frenzy, spreading out from the small oasis of peace he had cr
eated. Nowhere showed a hint of Shadow.
He felt his Lady unmake her working, dared to somewhat relax his shields—waited—and, when the levels remained clear and untroubled, brought them down entirely.
"The others?" his lady asked.
"I do not believe the Shadow located aught," he replied, and paused, recalling that storm of dark energy, the untoward disturbance of the lines.
"I shall inquire," he said, extending his will—
A spinning mass of darkness exploded out of probability, blazing through the levels like a meteor, haloed in silvery green.
Lute threw his shields up. Impossibly dense, the darkness tore through, plummeting to the physical level. He grabbed for the ley lines—and felt his lady's thought.