Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  ***

  The kid had gone to get his boss, leaving the two of them to kick their heels in what sleep-learning suggested was a formal reception parlor.

  Miri pictured him running down the long hallway the minute the door was shut and grinned as she glanced around, wondering what this room had over the one at the front of the house they’d almost stopped in. The kid had actually crossed the threshold of that room, and Miri got a glimpse of white paneled walls and uncomfortable looking furniture before he apparently thought better of it and stepped back with a slight bow and a murmured, “Follow me, please.”

  So now, the Yellow Salon, and another kid, a little younger than the first, bringing wine and glasses and a porcelain tray of cakes. She kept her eyes averted, after one disconcertingly bright blue glance that seemed more interested in Val Con than in her, and bowed real pretty, asking if anything else was required in a voice that said she hoped not.

  “Thank you,” Val Con said gravely. “The solicitude of the House gives gladness.”

  “Sir.” The kid bowed again and escaped, forgetting to wait for the door to fully close before she ran.

  Miri grinned again, slid her hands in her belt and wandered over to look out the window, squinting a little against the sun.

  “There’s your tree, boss.”

  “So?” He came over, shoulder companionably touching hers as he took in the view. “But that is not my Tree, Miri. That is Erob’s tree. Mine is much older—and taller.”

  “Sounds like a quibble to me,” she said. “If this one’s a seedling off yours and yours is the only one there is, besides its own seedlings . . .” She stopped, cheeks heating in an unaccustomed blush.

  Val Con laughed.

  “Ah. Clan becomes discovered.”

  “Real funny . . .” she began, and then cut off as the door clicked.

  Val Con went silently toward the center of the room, Miri half-a-pace behind his right shoulder.

  The woman who entered the salon had not run full-tilt down the hallway, but she hadn’t dallied, either. She was gray-haired, gray-eyed and golden skinned, wire-thin and charged with energy. Two heavy lines were grooved horizontally across her high forehead; more lines ran starkly from nose to mouth. Still more lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, puckered now as she stared against the sun. She was dressed simply, in what sleep-learning told Miri was house-tunic, and tight trousers tucked neatly into a pair of buff-colored short-boots.

  All business, she marched across the buttery carpet, stopped a precise four paces before Val Con and bowed crisply, hand over heart.

  “Emrith Tiazan,” she said in a low, clear voice, “Delm Erob.”

  Val Con made his own bow, more fluid than hers, though as deep. “Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval.”

  Miri tensed—but the old eyes stayed on Val Con.

  “Yes,” she said. “You have your father’s look.”

  Val Con bowed again, slightly—and with irony, Miri thought.

  Emrith Tiazan might have thought so, too; she lifted a sharp-bladed shoulder, and let it fall. Miri again tensed to make her own bow, but the old woman seemed intent on ignoring her.

  “I’ll tell you plain, Korval, before we sit to tea and cake and behaving as though we’re civilized—it’s no joy to see you at this time, tree-kin though we be. We’re just through with a matter that will heal in a generation or two—if all goes well and no one breeds another hothead like Kel Bar Rentava. I am aware that Erob owes a contract-wife this term, but while plain speaking’s in force I’ll tell you that the one we’d settled on went the soulroad in the war.” The old face shifted then, all the lines tightening, but her voice stayed smooth.

  “They shot her down—Clan Kenso. She was the very best we had, and they shot her down. Her ship crashed in the rock plain, east of here. I expect we have all the pieces, by now.”

  She closed her eyes briefly; lifted her shoulder again. “I’ll have nothing of such excellence to offer Korval until Alys comes to her growth—nine years, perhaps. Alys should do very well—but she’ll be no Kea Tiazan.”

  There was a silence.

  Miri’s mind raced, but nothing from her own experience or from the sleep-learned stuff helped her make sense of this one. The old lady was clearly at the end of her rope, worn to skin, bone, and character. Her mind might even be wandering, though Miri doubted that. It might have been that Val Con’s clan and Clan Erob had sealed an alliance with a marriage, when this lady had been a young delm . . .

  “Forgive me,” Emrith Tiazan was saying to Val Con, “if my frankness offends. I’ve no time for wasteful courtesies and it is certainly not necessary for Erob to stand upon ceremony with our old ally, Korval. We have always understood each other very well.”

  “In this instance, however,” Val Con said neutrally, “understanding may have fallen short. I assign no blame, nor does frankness offend.” He reached out to capture Miri around the wrist and drew her lightly forward to stand at his side. “I present my lifemate, Miri Robertson Tiazan, Lady yos’Phelium.”

  The gray eyes in their golden net of wrinkles went wide, then narrowed as they swept Miri from face to feet. The glance scathed, lingering longest on the leaf before whipping back to Val Con.

  “So! You discover a houseless favorite and you dare bring her to me? I shall acknowledge her, shall I, and give her place among the clans? Korval presumes—and presumes too far. I will remind you that you guest with Erob. Your whim is not law here!”

  That was enough. Miri moved, deliberately turning her flank on the old lady and her rage.

  “I tell you what, boss,” she said, in her flattest, ugliest Terran accent—one-hundred-percent Surebleak. “I ain’t about to join this outfit, genes or no genes.”

  “Ah,” said Val Con.

  “What did you say?” demanded Emrith Tiazan, in Terran, though Terran slurred and softened and pronounced like Liaden.

  “I said,” Miri snapped, in the stiffest mode she could call to mind from the High Tongue, “that it is not the place of a high commander to reprimand another commander who is come to parlay.”

  For the space of two heartbeats, Emrith Tiazan stood frozen, and then she bowed, very gently.

  “Forgive me—madam,” she said, the High Tongue carefully conveying equality of rank. “You spoke of genes. I desire further information upon the subject as you believe it to concern yourself and—this outfit.” She paused. “If you please.”

  Miri hesitated, more than half determined to walk out the door and down that long hallway and out into the sunshine. Ought to be able to find the merc camp without too much trouble, she thought; get a hot meal and a place to bunk. . .

  “Miri,” Val Con said softly. “Will you show Delm Erob your heirloom?”

  Damn him, she thought; and then sighed and worked the catch on her belt-pouch. She fingered the disk free and held it out to the old lady, belatedly remembering to bow.

  Emrith Tiazan glanced briefly at the shield, then turned to the obverse, frowning at the engraved genealogy. She looked back at Miri.

  “How came you by this?”

  “I have it from my mother,” Miri said, matching the other’s mild tone; “who had it from hers.”

  “So.” The old lady looked at Val Con. “This appears genuine.”

  He lifted a brow. “Many clans possess—protocols—for determining authenticity.”

  She stared at him. “Indeed. You will excuse me for a moment.” She turned and marched out of the room without waiting for their permission.

  The door had barely closed when Miri swung around. “What is this? How come she thinks you came here for a contract-wife? If you’re pulling one—one—of your damned Liaden tricks, that old lady ain’t gonna have to bother taking you apart, ’cause I’ll do it for her, you understand me?”

  “Yes, Miri,” he said meekly, but for once meekness failed to gain her smile. She stood glaring, poised on the balls of her feet, a trained fighter, more than half-ready to fight.
/>
  Val Con took her hand, led her to the couch by the refreshment table and sat down. “Miri.” He tugged gently at her, patting the cushion beside him.

  For a moment he thought she’d refuse, yank her hand free and stomp away, as he had been certain she would earlier, and he with no choice but to follow his lifemate. . .

  “Hell.” She flumped down next to him and dropped her head on his shoulder. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you know?”

  “Shan has often expressed that view,” he said, sighing in mock remorse. “The two who know me best cannot both be in error.”

  She snorted a half-laugh; stirred and sat up. “That kid who died—Kea? She was a pilot.”

  “So are you.”

  “Like hell—” The door clicked and she swallowed the rest of that argument.

  Emrith Tiazan stopped before the couch and held the disk out to Miri, bowing with careful equality. “This has tested genuine.” She straightened and looked at Val Con. “Genes, you believe?”

  “I have no doubt,” he said calmly. “You will, of course, wish to attain your own surety.”

  “Of course.” She went across the room to the desk comm and touched a button. In a very short while, the door opened to admit the young doorkeeper. He flicked a nervous glance at the couch, then bowed deeply to Emrith Tiazan.

  “My delm desires?”

  “You will go to the older storehouse and find in Room East 14 a large package stasis-locked and wrapped in blue silk. Bring it here. You will bid Win Den tel’Vosti attend me here. You will likewise bid the senior medical technician, adding that she shall bring her sampling kit.”

  The boy touched his tongue to his lips, bowed, turned—

  “An Der.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “Yes, Aunt?”

  “You will speak to no one, excepting tel’Vosti and the senior med. You will go to the storeroom alone and bring what I require away with your own hands.”

  The boy bowed again. “I hear,” he said—and ran.

  ***

  “Well, Emrith?”

  The old man leaned on his stick in the center of the room. “To what do I owe this interruption of my studies?”

  “Studies!” The delm stared at him for a moment, then moved a hand, directing his attention to the couch. “I make you known to Val Con yos’Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval. Korval, my kinsman, Win Den tel’Vosti, thodelm.”

  “So.” The brown eyes watched with seeming amusement as Val Con stood and made his bow.

  “My Lord tel’Vosti.”

  “My Lord yos’Phelium.” The return bow was more complete than Miri would have expected, given the cane. “Your father was a rare one for Counterchance.”

  “So my uncle has told me, sir.”

  “Er Thom yos’Galan? Now there was a demon for the game! Very good he was—a thoughtful, subtle player, no shame. We came even, the times we played. But Daav . . . I believe I may yet owe him a cantra. Perhaps two. I’ll consult my account books. Do you play?”

  “A bit, sir, but not to match my uncle.”

  “Pity.” The brown eyes sharpened. “You’ll want to have that wound looked after, of course, before you meet the House.”

  Wound? What wo—Sleep learning surfaced and Miri gulped against the sudden understanding of what it meant, to be a Liaden with your face scarred . . . .

  “Thank you, sir,” Val Con was saying calmly. “It’s healed cleanly.”

  “Win Den.” Emrith Tiazan began, but tel’Vosti had come to attention, as if he were a corps captain facing another, and half-sketched a salute.

  “It is your campaign, sir.”

  “Win Den.” This time his delm’s voice could not be ignored. She moved her hand. “I am told that this lady is Miri Robertson Tiazan.”

  Miri came to her feet and bowed into those amused brown eyes.

  “Well, and why not?” said the old gentleman, returning the bow with a certain flair.

  “Lady yos’Phelium,” Val Con murmured in the room’s sudden stillness and tel’Vosti straightened with a laugh.

  “Aha! A man who wishes to be absolute of his assets! My felicitations, sir! Perhaps you are not so poor a player of the game as you would have me believe.” He glanced back at Miri.

  “You are a soldier?” he asked, in the almost-friendly mode of Comrade.

  “I was,” Miri said, allowing him the mode, though not without a few mental reservations. “I retired a year or two ago.”

  “Indeed? At what rank?”

  She eyed him warily, wondering where this line of questioning was going; wondering, with a sudden spurt of panic, if he was trying to figure her melant’i and if it was going to come up to par. “Master sergeant.”

  “Master sergeant.” He said it like a caress. “And your age is?”

  “Twenty-eight Standards.” She considered him, the lurking amusement, the straight shoulders, the cane, the mane of pinkish hair. “More or less.”

  He laughed and glanced at Emrith Tiazan, who stood, grim-faced and silent, near the desk.

  “So you tell me you retired two years ago, with the rank of master sergeant. A private troop, perhaps? Industrial?”

  “No,” Miri had to tell him, against a building wave of dread. “Mercenary unit.” She mustered enough nerve to glare into his perpetual amusement. “I was with the Gyrfalks before I retired. I began in Lizardi’s Lunatics, which is how I came to be a sergeant in the first place. We got into a spot of trouble, command-chain broke down . . .”

  “So you were made field sergeant.” tel’Vosti tipped his head. “But your rank was upheld, once the—trouble—was past. And the Gyrfalks raised the stake by a star.”

  Suddenly, amazingly, he bowed. “A Master of mercenary sergeants by the time you attained twenty-five Standards! A significant feat, Lady yos’Phelium, for I have seen the Gyrfalks in action. Their conduct is always professional and they are most resourceful. Their services do not come cheap—am I correct, Emrith?—but they are worth their weight in cantra, each of them. Korval does well to guard his assets.”

  The door clicked, and opened to admit the wide-eyed doorman, barely seen behind the flat crate he carried against his chest. After him came a stern dark-haired woman in a crisp coverall: the senior med tech.

  “Great,” Miri whispered to Val Con, as tel’Vosti and the delm turned away to deal with the new arrivals. “Now maybe we can get this over and get outta here.”

  ***

  The crate had been placed against the desk, and the blue silk drawn away. Emrith Tiazan knelt before it and with her own hands loosened the seals. An Der helped her rise, a solicitous hand at her elbow, a ready arm by her waist.

  She shook him off and stepped back. “Open it,” she said harshly, and the boy bent to comply.

  Val Con drifted forward, Miri at his side. They stopped to the right of Win Den tel’Vosti, who stood with both hands covering the knob of his cane, no amusement at all in his face. The med tech had shrugged and gone over to the couch, perching on the wide arm and watching the proceedings with a sort of distant interest.

  An Der wrestled the cover loose and stepped away.

  The med tech drew a noisy breath in through her teeth.

  Nobody else moved at all, and Miri frowned, wondering why an old mirror should be the focus of such tension, such expect—

  “Oh, shit,” she breathed, and moved away from Val Con’s side, staring at the reflection that didn’t move—didn’t move because it was a painting—a portrait, not a mirror. A portrait of a woman in flying leathers and loose-laced white shirt, arms crossed under slight breasts, legs braced wide, gray eyes direct in a willful, intelligent face, and the copper-colored hair done in a single long braid, wrapped three times around her head.

  “Miri Tiazan,” Emrith Tiazan said, voice still strained. “Who left the clan in disgrace.”

  “Who put the clan in disgrace by leaving,” tel’Vosti corrected. “Be precise, Emrith.”

  “It i
s disgrace to ignore the delm’s order!”

  “But she never did ignore it—as you well know. She merely asked leave to postpone contract wedding until love’s seed should bear fruit. Tamishon was in no great hurry, being content to know the contract was valid and eventually would be fulfilled. Four month’s delay was no cause to abort the babe.” He turned to Miri and bowed slightly, indicating fuller information forthcoming.

  “The lad was dead, you see—she’d get no other child from him. And Baan Tiazan was a tyrant who ruled both his daughters hard, eh, Emrith?” He moved his shoulders when she gave no answer, amusement back in his eyes.

  “She was not always dutiful, understand—that would be unlike her name. But she acquiesced in the large things, and made shift to come the sophisticate, in company.”

  Miri shook herself. “She ran away to have her kid,” she finished, in Terran, too shaken to sort through sleep-learned modes. “She crashed on Surebleak and couldn’t get home . . .”

  “Is that what came of her?” tel’Vosti asked softly. His Terran was better than the delm’s. “We had wondered.”

  She shook herself again, ran the Rainbow, fast, to get distance from the shock of the picture and the tension focused now on her. “I’m guessing,” she told tel’Vosti. “She’s dressed like a pilot—and there ain’t any reason to choose Surebleak, when you got the whole galaxy ahead.”

  “So,” he said, and looked ready to say more.

  “There will be a gene test,” Emrith Tiazan snapped. “Med Tech, attend your duty!”

  The tech came to her feet, looking open-mouthed from the picture to Miri. She looked finally at the old lady and bowed, rearranging her face into an expression of cool interest.

  “As you say,” she murmured, and drew a flat kit from her utility pocket. “If the young lady will attend me here . . .”

  ***

  The blue dress felt nice.

  It looked nice, too, Miri decided. In fact, she looked amazingly respectable for a woman who had lately been a mercenary master sergeant, a bodyguard, a fugitive from justice, a woman of all work, and a singer.