by Sharon Lee
“An original?” She frowned and shook her head.
Val Con sighed. “It is one of the reasons I insisted you learn the Code from the source, rather than from my tutoring,” he said slowly. “Each individual takes the Code and—shapes it—according to his own character and necessity. Now, I have, perhaps, taken too much from my uncle’s tutelage—or learned too young, as Shan would have it—so my manner tends toward coolness and extreme precision.” He sipped wine, brows drawn.
“Shan is an original,” he murmured: “his manners are appalling, but his manner pleases. Anthora follows his style. Pat Rin is very correct, but easy, so the correctness seems joined to and flowing from his melant’i. Nova—” he shook his head, smiling with a touch of wistfulness. “I once overhead someone say he would rather meet an angry lyr-cat unarmed, than Nova and I in a reception line.”
Miri laughed.
Val Con leaned over and kissed her.
“Mmmm,” she said and shivered delightedly as warm, knowing fingers stroked down the line of her throat.
“You find me too Liaden, Miri?” Val Con’s voice was husky in her ear, his cheek soft against hers.
She breathed in the scent of him and let the breath go in a half-gasping laugh as desire broke over her. “The clothes threw me,” she murmured. “Why don’t you take ’em off?”
He laughed gently, took her wineglass and bent to put it aside, his weight pushing her into the cushions. Then his lips were back, demanding full attention, while his hands stroked and teased and finally found the fastenings of the dress and loosed them.
She tried to return the favor, reaching to open the fine white shirt, but he eluded her hands, keeping her pinned and all but helpless while he slipped the dress down over her shoulders and a bit further, nuzzling her throat, kissing her breasts, her belly . . .
The dress was gone. She reached again to help him out of the shirt, aching to feel his skin against hers—and was fended off with a breathless laugh: “Ah, not so greedy, cha’trez . . .”
Mouth and hands engaged her full attention once more, the soft fabrics of trousers and shirt stroking against her nakedness alternately frustrating and exhilarating.
At some point, he picked her up and lay her down again on that high, wide bed, and was gone for a moment, returning with his hand full of bed-flowers.
He covered her in them, laughing; crushed one in long fingers and stroked the fragrance across her breasts. She shivered and laughed and twisted, pulling him down and mock wrestling, desperate to have him, with an urgency the flower-scent fed.
He laughed, fingers and lips teasing; but allowed the shirt—and at once allowed everything, abandoning the role of command as she bit and kissed and stroked and the flowers were crushed beneath them and gave up their seductive odor.
She lay across his chest, teasing, nearly lazy against the flower’s urgency. Val Con’s eyes were half-closed, his face blurred with desire, hands stroking, beginning to insist. But he wasn’t in control now, she was. She rubbed against him, felt his hips move and laughed as she kissed his ear.
“So greedy, Val Con . . .”
A laugh—or a soft groan. “Miri . . .”
She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him, on the warmth, on how well their bodies fit, on the desire barely restrained, soon to be loosed.
She looked at the pattern of him inside her head.
And—reached out, very softly, to stroke it and breathe on it and—kiss it—and love it and desire it and—
Beneath her, Val Con went utterly still. Miri opened her eyes.
“Cha’trez . . .” He touched her face, his eyes wide and shocked-looking, as if he’d been suddenly wakened. “Miri, what are you doing?”
She looked at him through slitted eyes, still more than half cuddling the pattern of him—the him of him—against her, feeling the love flow from her; feeling it return, enriched and expanded.
“Loving you,” she managed. Then, as the distress in his eyes began to resonate in his pattern. “Should I stop?”
“No.” His hands closed hard around her waist and he rolled, spilling her over into the crushed flowers and him hard and urgent atop her. “Never stop.”
It was bodies, then, and lust and the flowers and finally two voices crying out as one in joy and wonder.
They were still tangled around each other when the timer shut the room lights down. Both were fast asleep.
DUTIFUL PASSAGE:
In Orbit
“Once more,” First Mate Priscilla Mendoza called, “sequence twelve . . . now!”
Inside the lifeboat the pilot hit the sequence. Outside, the laser turrets swiveled, left, right, up, down, extended and finally withdrew into their shielding.
“Great!” she said. “Shut her down, Seth; we’re meshed.”
The little ship obediently powered down and the pilot slipped out of the slot, slamming the hatch.
“Last one,” he said. “Time to take on the Yxtrang.”
Priscilla blinked up at him—long, rat-faced, laconic Seth, matter-of-factly installing laser cannons on lifeboats. “Is that what you think we’re going to do?” she asked. “Go to war with the Yxtrang?”
Seth shrugged, bending over to gather up his toolkit. “Can’t think of anybody else’ll fire on escape pods,” he said calmly. “Terrans won’t. Liadens won’t—pay all that weirgild?” He grinned, a surprise of white teeth in his narrow face. “Never met a Liaden crazy enough to bankrupt himself on a sure thing.”
Priscilla smiled back and slung her tool bag over her shoulder. “So it’s the Yxtrang, by process of elimination?”
“Seems reasonable,” Seth said, ambling at her side down the service hall to Bay Four. “Either that, or Shan wants an ace up his sleeve.” He shrugged. “Never known Shan to make a bad play, where the ship was concerned. I’ll follow him on this one.”
Priscilla stopped and looked directly into his eyes—mud brown and smallish—Healer sense tuned to read every nuance of his emotive pattern.
“Seth, it’s not Yxtrang. But it could still be very dangerous. People who well might fire on an escape pod, and Balance be damned. We don’t know that they will, but we aren’t at all convinced that they won’t.” She paused and packed the next words heavily, timing them to his inner resonance. “Be certain, Seth. There’s still time for you to ship down—no blame.”
He stared back into her eyes, more than half-tranced.
“Shan found me in a backworld dive,” he said, so softly she strained to hear. “I was scraping out a living running in-system ore boats and garbage scows. Drinking too much, doing too much smoke. Lost my family in an Yxtrang raid—wife, kids, parents. Went off my head, I guess. Came to, eventually—no money, no job, and no friends. Shan needed pilots—‘Always need a good pilot,’ he said—gods, I can still see him coming into that dive—skinny, shoulders not filled yet, cutting deals like a pro—sixteen, maybe seventeen Standards—with that white hair and a kid’s face and those eyes. Never seen eyes like that . . .” He blinked; shook his head and Priscilla let him break the trance.
He sighed. “Shan got me out of there—out of all of there. Gave me a chance. ‘My man,’ is what he told the port guard. ‘That’s my man, sir; and he’s wanted at his post.’” He nodded sharply and turned away, heading doggedly down the hall.
“If it’s Yxtrang or if it’s something worse,” he said as Priscilla fell in beside him, “I reckon I can man my post.”
***
Shan looked up as she entered his office, smiled wanly and returned to the screen. Priscilla crossed to the bar and poured two glasses of wine—red, for him; white, for her—and carried them back to the desk. She slid into the chair opposite and waited, holding the glass and running through a low-level exercise to restore tranquility.
“Thank you, Priscilla.” He picked up his own glass, waved it in ironic salute and took a healthy drink.
“You’re welcome,” she murmured, reading the worry and the exhaustion and the
sparking nervous energy overlaying his emotive grid. “The First Mate reports all lifeships armed. Field tests remain to be done, but everything reads fine on the circuits.” She sipped wine. “Seth Johnson chooses to remain with his Captain.”
Shan sighed. “Seth Johnson is a sentimental fool,” he said, and nodded at the screen. “We have a match.”
“So soon?”
“Amazing, isn’t it? With so many gene-maps in the galaxy?” He grinned tiredly. “I played a hunch—that notation on Sergeant Robertson’s birth certificate—mutated within acceptable limits—you recall?”
She nodded. “You thought that might mean ‘partly Liaden.’”
“And my thought has proved correct—I tell you, Priscilla, I’m not a master of trade for nothing! Though you would consider that a scout might more fully communicate—but I digress. How unusual.” He took another swallow of wine and waved at the screen. “Miri Robertson’s gene-map matches that of Line Tiazan.” He eyed her expectantly.
She sipped her wine, knowing that her temple training had taught her more than enough patience to wait out one of Shan’s rare silences.
“You disappoint me. Don’t you have the least wish to know who the devil Tiazan is and where we’ll be meeting my wretched brother?”
“But I was certain you were about to tell me.”
“Unkind, Priscilla. I can’t think why I lifemated you.”
“Because I let you talk as much as you want.”
“Do you? How odd. Especially as I have the distinct impression that I’m talking less than I ever have. But, I perceive you a-quiver with curiosity and hasten to explain.”
He set his glass aside with a flourish and sat up straighter in the chair, humor vanishing from face and emotive grid.
“Tiazan is First Line of Clan Erob,” he said; “which has its seat upon Lytaxin. So to go to ‘Miri’s people’ as directed by my brother and delm-to-be, we need merely go to Lytaxin. Very simple, once one has the proper information. What astonishes me particularly is that for once in his life Val Con seems to have done exactly as he ought.”
Priscilla blinked. “He has?”
“As I said, astonishing. Though, to be just, Val Con often does as he ought. Of course, he just as often does precisely as he pleases. I expect there’s a deliberate pattern involved, calculated to a hair’s breadth to appear random. One afternoon when I’m bored I’ll feed the parameters to the tactical computers and see what they make of it. But to continue! Erob is Korval’s most ancient ally. The family diaries speak of Rool Tiazan and his lifemate, leaders of the dramliz, who chose to evacuate the Old World on the ship piloted by Cantra yos’Phelium.”
Priscilla allowed a wisp of inquiry to escape her and Shan nodded.
“Rool Tiazan had read the luck, you see—and the luck sent him to Cantra yos’Phelium.”
“Rool Tiazan was a full wizard, then,” Priscilla murmured. “He had the Sight.”
“Apparently so, since Quick Passage and her passengers eventually came safe to Liad.”
“And all that time since the ship came to Liad, Korval and Erob have been allies?”
“Actually a bit longer than that,” Shan said. “Cantra’s log indicates that she and Jela—her partner before she took on the revered yos’Galan ancestor—had known Rool Tiazan and his lady some time prior to the evacuation. If it comes to that—recall that I promised to amaze, Priscilla!—we’re a bit more than allies. More accurate to say cousins—or half-clan, there’s a word! Ever since the ship landed on Liad, Tiazan and Korval have been sticking to an arrangement—actually a protocol, all properly signed and sealed—a schedule of a contract-marriage every three generations, with the child going, in unfailing sequence: Erob, Korval, Erob, Korval . . .”
Priscilla frowned. “You said Tiazan and Korval—”
“So I did, and so it was. Korval seems to have sent equally from yos’Phelium and yos’Galan, but Erob seems only to have sent from Tiazan, never from the subordinate Line. In any wise, the schedule demanded a contract wedding this generation. yos’Galan was sent last time, and the child came to Korval.”
“And Val Con knew all this?” Priscilla demanded.
Shan shrugged and reached for his glass. “Now that’s a different question. Unless he’s knocked his head rather sharply, he certainly recalls our long association with Erob. That a mating was mandated and that yos’Phelium must send—I doubt he did know that. I only know it because when I was First Speaker in Trust, I received a note from Great-great-great Aunt Wayr yos’Phelium, dated one hundred ten Standard years ago.” He sighed. “I sent it forward a little time more, to Val Con’s thirty-fifth Name Day: a puzzle for him to solve on the day he becomes delm.”
“But Miri Robertson is Line Tiazan, and she and Val Con are lifemates . . .”
Shan nodded. “The child of a contract-marriage would have gone to Erob. But the children of a lifemating will come to the clan sheltering both partners.”
“And Val Con will not leave Korval for another clan.” She made it a half-question, and Shan answered with unwarranted soberness.
“Val Con is Korval Himself—the one who will be delm. He can’t leave. There’s no clan in the Book who would have him.” He sighed. “Korval has this certain—reputation. Even among our allies.” He stared into the dregs of his glass, then all at once seemed to shake himself and looked over to her with a wry smile.
“It’s been a long day, Priscilla. Will you join me for a nap?”
“Certainly.” She came gracefully to her feet, despite the weariness that grated behind her eyes and pulled at her back. “Ken Rik has shift-authority and will call if there’s a problem.”
“Wonderful,” Shan muttered, stepping aside to let her procede him into their private quarters. “I always wanted to be captain of a military vessel, Priscilla. Remind me to give my brother a very sound shaking, when we finally catch up with him.”
“Yes, dear,” she said placidly and turned to give him a hug.
LYTAXIN:
Erob’s Clanhouse
Val Con struck the last note, held it and looked over to Alys Tiazan, standing alert by the audio unit. He nodded and she pressed a key, ending the recording. Val Con lifted his hands from the keyboard and smiled.
“I thank you, Miss Alys. Your assistance was invaluable.”
“You are kind to say it,” she responded, very properly indeed, for one rising ten Standards, and then dimpled. “But you had much better have had me than Kol Vus, you know. He fidgets awfully!”
“Then I was doubly fortunate to encounter you,” Val Con said gravely, touching the omnichora’s power-plate. “Shall we play the tape back, do you think? It would not do to give Kol Vus a muddy recording, when he has been so gracious in accommodating me.”
“But he must do that, mustn’t he?” Alys said, with the cool matter-of-factness of childhood. “After all, you are Korval.”
“So I am, but I am also a guest in your house. Allow me to possess some address, I beg.”
That bought a bright glissade of laughter, after which she considered him for a moment more soberly, face intent and looking, so he fancied, very much as Miri had, at ten.
“I don’t think you’re the least frightening,” she stated at last and Val Con inclined his head.
“You relieve me.”
“Now you sound like Uncle Win Den,” Alys told him severely, and bent to the audio unit, pressing three keys in sequence.
Music swelled out of the tiny unit, filling the room to the walls.
The name of the piece was Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and it had been written many years before Terrans achieved the stars by a man named Johann Sebastian Bach. It had been Anne Davis’ favorite piece of music, and for this present purpose Val Con had striven to play it in precisely her style.
The role of Clan Radio Tech Kol Vus Tiazan in the project was to seal the brief recording to Lytaxin’s perimeter beacons. Ninety seconds, Val Con thought, would surely be long enough for Shan to descry
their mother’s favorite and read into it verification that Val Con awaited him on world.
The music-fragment ended, snapped off clean at 90 seconds, and Val Con again inclined his head.
“I believe that will serve the purpose quite well. May I discommode you further, Miss Alys?”
“You would like me to take this down to Kol Vus?” she asked, rising and sliding the unit’s carry strap over her shoulder. “That’s no trouble. I need to pass the comm room on the way to my tutor.” She hesitated. “You play very nicely. I would be happy to hear more, if time allows it during your guesting.”
His touch on the omnichora was god-gift, honed by years of study. He could easily have been a master musician—a maestro, according to Anne, who had taught him his scales. But he was Korval: Stranger passions claimed precedence.
He smiled at the child before him, her hair a riot of orange curls, her eyes an intelligent, sparkling brown.
“I would be honored to play for you, Miss Alys. Only name a time.”
She tipped her head, apparently consulting some inner schedule. “Tomorrow?” she said eventually. “In the hour before Prime?”
“Done,” he said gravely, and bowed as one accepting a treasure.
She did not, as he expected, erupt into giggles at this, but returned the bow most creditably, murmuring an exquisitely proper “The pleasure is mine.”
She straightened, then adjusted the strap across her shoulder and smiled. “I have to go before my tutor tells Aunt Emrith I’ve been late again.”
“Please do not allow me to be the cause of such distress to the House,” Val Con said, and that did draw a giggle, cut off as she slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her.
He stood alone in the music room, considering his options. Miri was closeted with Erob’s Historian, filling details in the lives of Miri-eklykt’i and Katalina Tayzin—an interview that promised to be both lengthy and productive of an uneasy temper in onelifemate.