Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  ***

  AS AGREED, the majority of their party waited in the side garden while Nelirikk went ahead to alert his captain to the presence of both scouts and recruits.

  The hour was far advanced, and he was certain that the medical technician currently in a position of authority over the captain would find his visit unseemly. Had he been in pursuit of an Yxtrang commander in similar straits, Nelirikk would simply have put the technician aside and given his report; a soldier’s duty came before all: illness, pleasure, sleep, or food.

  Liadens held to another ordering of duties, and the necessities of soldiers were not always at the top of the list. Which is how it came to pass that a mere medical technician could order a captain.

  Nor was it appropriate, according to the complex net of rule and custom in which Liadens ensnared themselves, for a captain’s aide to lay hands on a med tech for the purpose of gaining his captain’s side.

  It was thus necessary to have a reason for speaking to the captain at once that the tech would accept as sufficiently urgent to disturb her rest.

  Wrestling with this conundrum, Nelirikk turned a corner—and slammed to a halt, staring.

  Two people were walking toward him—two people he had reason to know well. The woman was none other than his captain, who he had last seen that morning, lying pale and weak against pillows; med tech on the hover. The man was no one less than the scout himself, who certainly should not be walking—not so soon, if ever again.

  Regardless, here they came, strolling hand-in-hand down the center of the hallway, to the uninformed eye, as vulnerable and as guileless as children. Nelirikk frankly stared.

  “Hey, Beautiful,” the captain called. “How was your walk?”

  “Captain.” He recalled himself and came to attention, saluting. “My walk was . . . interesting.”

  “Yeah? You didn’t seen any Clutch turtles, did you?”

  Clutch turtles? Nelirikk managed to stifle the shiver, while fervently hoping never in his lifetime to see a Clutch turtle, enemy of the Troop, slayer of fleets.

  “Captain,” he replied, somewhat stiffly, “I have not. I have, however, seen scouts, and together we have—”

  “Scouts?” the man murmured. “Are you certain?”

  Nelirikk frowned. “Are there others among Liadens who walk silent and woodwise and arrive on-world in a scout class ship?”

  “Actually,” the scout said surprisingly, “there are.”

  Nelirikk thought about that, then looked to the captain, who was watching him out of ironic grey eyes.

  “Two represent themselves as scouts: Clonak ter’Meulen, scout commander; Shadia Ne’Zame, scout lieutenant, first in. The third . . .” He looked from grey eyes to green. “The third did not say he was a scout, though the others treat him as a peer—and at times defer to him. The lieutenant addresses him as ‘captain’. He bears a Tree-and-Dragon—” He touched the matching symbol on his collar, “and gives his name as Daav yos’Phelium.”

  The scout’s eyebrows rose. “Does he?” He glanced at the captain.

  “Odds he’s the genuine article?” she asked. He moved his shoulders.

  “It would be difficult to fool Clonak, even at this remove; he and my father trained together. Later, he was a member of the survey team of which my father was captain. Uncle Er Thom said the two of them were great friends—even though Clonak had been in love with my mother.” Again, he moved his shoulders, and smiled into the captain’s eyes. “If it’s odds you’re after, my lady—then I am compelled to say that I have too little data and must see the man for myself.”

  “Sure you are,” she said resignedly. The scout grinned and Nelirikk gave a start, the sense of wrongness about the other man’s face crystalizing all at once. The green eyes moved; pinning him.

  “Yes?”

  “I—” Nelirikk cleared his throat. “Scout, your nchaka is—gone.”

  “Ah.” The smaller man inclined his head. “The Troop remembers.”

  “The Troop remembers,” Nelirikk affirmed and looked back to his captain.

  “Captain. In addition to scouts, my walk produced recruits.”

  She shook her head. “The Irregulars are outta business; ain’t taking recruits. Point ’em at Commander Carmody.”

  “Commander Carmody has given medical care, food and quarters, so winning himself a place in the camp-tales. However, if the captain pleases, these recruits will give their oaths and their weapons only to Hero Captain Miri Robertson, who vanquished the Fourteenth.”

  She sighed. “You’re talking about Yxtrang recruits?”

  “Tales of your prowess echo throughout the ranks of two armies,” the scout murmured. “A hero to Yxtrang and mercenary alike, you—”

  “Can it,” she told him and frowned up at Nelirikk.

  “How many?”

  “If the captain pleases. One Rifle and an explorer—two in total. The third—a senior explorer—has gone to glory’s reward.”

  “Yeah? Two of you have an argument?”

  “Captain. I had not the honor to know Gernchik Explorer before he died. He was wounded in a rear-holding action, to allow the officers time to escape. Seeing that his condition was serious, and unwilling to use the grace blade, his junior—Hazenthull Explorer—attached Diglon Rifle to her command, and marched the three of them here, to present their weapons and offer you their oaths.”

  “And to get her senior into an autodoc, quicktime.” She nodded. “How’s she taking his death?”

  This was the joy of serving a captain wise in the way of the common troop. Nelirikk saluted. “Captain. She is at the moment . . . docile. Daav yos’Phelium gives it as his opinion that this condition might change, quickly and catastrophically.”

  “He does, huh? Then I hope you got her someplace where she can’t do too much damage.”

  “Captain. She is in the garden attached to the side of this wing.”

  The captain blinked. She looked at the scout, who lifted an eyebrow.

  “Nelirikk,” she said, mildly.

  He swallowed and came to full attention. “Captain.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Right.” She looked up at him. “You want to tell me what you was thinking?”

  “Captain. It was the thought of Daav yos’Phelium that Hazenthull Explorer should be brought immediately to give full battle-oath to the captain. He fears that the interim oath he holds from her is not strong enough to bind, if her grief overcomes her reason. He was supported in this by the scouts.”

  “Daav yos’Phelium holds temporary oaths from an Yxtrang common trooper and an explorer?” she asked

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She shook her head and looked again at the scout. “This has got to be your father.”

  “He does appear to have something of the familial sense of humor.” His face was bland.

  “Is that what you call it?” She sighed. “What else, Beautiful? Might as well spill it all.”

  “Captain, there is no more. Your recruits await you, accompanied by scouts.”

  “The Irregulars’re out of business,” she repeated, but it was scout she was speaking to. “I don’t guess it would be good form for Line yos’Phelium to hold a private troop.”

  “There is,” murmured the scout, “some precedent.”

  “Great. I suppose the House routinely hires Yxtrang soldiers to guard its piggy-bank. No—” she raised a hand—”don’t tell me.”

  “As the captain wishes.”

  “No respect, that’s your problem.” She fell silent then, frowning at a space somewhere between Nelirikk’s left elbow and infinity. Eventually, she looked up.

  “OK. Get on back. We’ll be there soon.”

  Nelirikk saluted. “Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

  “Think you’d know better than to thank me by now,” she said, and her voice sharpened. “I
f the explorer decides her oath ain’t binding, shoot her dead. If her trooper’s reasonable, you can stop there and wait for me. If hell breaks, I expect you and the scouts to be standing when it’s done. This is an order.”

  Nelirikk saluted once more. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Right. Get outta here.”

  Another salute and he was gone.

  Miri waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded to nothing before looking into her partner’s speculative green eyes.

  “How much precedent?” she asked.

  ***

  THE CHILD IS GOING to break, Daav thought, stifling a sigh. Behind his eyes, he felt Aelliana stir, though she offered no comment.

  To casual—that was to say, non-scout—eyes, Hazenthull was the picture of well-mannered docility. She sat where she had been directed, on a wide stone bench beneath a fragrant tree laced with fairy lights, Diglon Rifle at her side.

  The garden was largely shrouded in night, pierced gently here and there by the spangle of decorative lights. Shadia was invisible between the bench and the outside gate, on the alert for trouble. Clonak had disappeared into the shadows nearer the house, guarding the door against the possibility of an Yxtrang rush.

  As oath-holder, Daav occupied the position of greater peril, leaning against an artfully place boulder directly before the stone bench occupied by his oathsworn. He crossed his arms over his chest, which put his right hand on the butt of the pistol riding hidden in his vest.

  Gods, he thought, I don’t want to waste a scout.

  “Nor ought we to endanger the House.” Aelliana’s tone was more than a little acerbic, which was, Daav owned, no less than he deserved, who had placed Erob’s House in peril by insisting upon this mad course.

  If the captain comes quickly . . . he thought. Yes, and if Hazenthull could but hold scout-sense against the rising tide of rage—that the solution which was to have bought her senior’s life had failed, leaving her and her dependent trapped and in the power of the enemy . . .

  “She depended upon her senior to find the way clear, once he was healed,” Aelliana said. “She did not plan fully.”

  How could she? he replied, reading the change in Hazenthull’s muscles, malleable under the growing warmth of her rage. His survival was the essence of her plan.

  On the stone bench, Hazenthull shifted, her muscles bunching as if for the charge. Daav’s hand closed around the hidden pistol.

  “Explorer.” Unexpectedly, Diglon Rifle leaned forward. “Explorer, the captain comes.”

  She turned on him, face set in a snarl, and started badly when the house door snapped open, admitting the person—and the voice—of Nelirikk Explorer.

  “Prepare for inspection!” he commanded, in the Yxtrang common tongue.

  Diglon Rifle rose at once, marched over to the pool of light spilling from the open door and dropped into parade rest.

  Hazenthull Explorer sat, as a woman turned to stone, staring, her face beneath the tattoo work beginning to crumble.

  “Explorers kept discipline, when I was in the corps,” Nelirikk said, acidic in the extreme; and then snarled, “Prepare for inspection!”

  The command voice sent a little thrill even along Daav’s scout-trained nerves. Diminished as she was, Hazenthull was in no condition to resist.

  Sullen, but obedient, she stood, walked out into the light and assumed parade rest slightly in advance of Diglon Rifle, as befit her higher rank. Nelirikk placed himself to the right and slightly forward of both, eyes front.

  Daav sighed and stood away from the boulder, hands at his side, pistol nestled yet in its secret pocket, and wondered how soon the captain might arrive.

  Wonder was speedily answered.

  “Troop! Attention!” Nelirikk bellowed, and all three straightened as the empty doorway framed a slender woman in working leathers, her white shirt laced with silver cord, her red hair neatly braided and wrapped three times around her head, like the crown of a barbarian princess. At her back, not immediately noticeable, walked a man, dressed as she was, in working leathers, his shirt black, his hair dark.

  Daav took a careful, quiet breath. The scout, is it? he thought. Aelliana, behold our son.

  His vision slipped, the images going ghostly, as it did when she was actively using his eyes, rather than merely depending upon the data he gathered for both of them.

  “A scout sublime,” she murmured. “No more substantive than a thought, and the edges of him so sharp he fairly glows. Though I think that he would not be quite so invisible if his lady did not deliberately draw the eye to herself.” She paused. “A formidable pair of children, to be sure, van’chela—and aptly joined, leaf and root.” His eyesight blurred; became his own once more. “We may be proud.”

  Or terrified, Daav amended, and heard her laugh before she vanished from his awareness.

  Straight up to the waiting troops walked the red-haired lady, and stood before them, hands behind her back, chin up. She took her time considering them; the man at her side glanced casually ’round the garden, unerringly picking out the positions of the three scouts.

  Apparently satisfied with what she saw, the lady deigned to speak. “I am Captain Miri Robertson, field name Redhead.” Her voice was firm, her Yxtrang slow, but robust, her accent, Daav noted wryly, neither native nor quite as ghastly as his own. “I am in command here. Lieutenant, present the recruits.”

  “Captain.” Nelirikk saluted, showily, and barked out. “Candidate Hazenthull Explorer, stand forward for inspection!”

  For a marvel, she did so, and saluted, somewhat faintly, her stance eloquent of disbelief as she gazed down upon a captain two-thirds her height and less than half her mass.

  “Captain,” she said, warily.

  “Explorer.” The captain’s tone was cool

  “Candidate Diglon Rifle!” Nelirikk ordered. “Stand forward for inspection!”

  He did, saluting with energy. “Captain!”

  “Rifle.” Slightly warmer, there, accompanied by an infinitesimal nod of the head. “Why do you want to enlist under me?”

  “Captain.” He saluted, looking bewildered, as well he might, thought Daav. Why was not the concern of mere Rifles.

  “Captain, soldiers need command. We are . . . abandoned in place, without orders, except to resist the enemy until we die.” He paused, brow furrowed, tattoos rumpling. “Captain, I would rather live than die.”

  Captain Miri Robertson, field name Redhead, smiled. “So would I.” The smile faded.

  “Hazenthull Explorer.”

  “Captain.”

  “Why do you want to enlist under me?”

  There was a pause, possibly longer than was quite considerate of the captain’s honor.

  “Captain. Soldiers need command.”

  The captain shook her head, Terran-style. “But explorers—like scouts—chafe under too much command. As I well know.” She paused, then snapped in full command mode.

  “Explain!”

  Hazenthull jerked, and saluted, hastily. “Captain. It was known that the Hero of the Battle for the Airfield had recruited an explorer. It was thought that such a captain might attach more explorers to her unit. The Fourteenth Conquest Corps has deserted us. Without command we are dead and without honor. Under a Hero captain we may serve with honor and die with glory. For the good of the Troop.”

  There was a small silence before the captain nodded. “Better.” She glanced at the silent scout, perhaps gaining some information from his face that was invisible to Daav. She brought her gaze back to the two Yxtrang.

  “Before I ask for your oaths,” she said slowly, “I will tell you that the troop you came to join, the Lytaxin Irregulars, was a field troop, its ranks filled by survivors from the first wave of the invasion and a few old soldiers who had been separated from their home troops. Having done duty, the Irregulars have—honorably and without prejudice—been disbanded. The survivors have returned to rebuild their homes. The old soldiers, many of them, have been reattached
to their home troops, which came in as part of the counterattack. Those who have not are temporarily attached to mercenary units here. They will take transport when the mercenary forces lift and will rendezvous with their home troop out of headquarters. Understand this. I hold rank as a captain of mercenary soldiers, commissioned by Commander Carmody himself, but at this time, I have no command.”

  She paused. Neither recruit made a sound.

  “In addition to my rank as captain,” she continued, “I owe allegiance to a kin-group—Clan Korval. This kin-group has acquired a worthy and cunning enemy. In order to fight this enemy, we will need soldiers. The sub-group Line yos’Phelium stands ready to receive your oaths, if you wish to give them, but you must understand that this service will be different. You will be required to learn languages other than the tongue of the Troop; cultural study will be required. I expect this of explorer and Rifle, alike. Worse, you will serve not one captain, but the leaders of the sub-kin-group, who are two and equal.” She put her hand, palm flat, against her chest; then likewise touched the man beside her.

  “This is Val Con yos’Phelium Clan Korval. He is, among many other things, a Liaden scout and my lifemate.” She tipped her head, and asked a question in Liaden. “Do you understand ‘lifemate’, Hazenthull Explorer?”

  “If the captain pleases. As we are taught, it is an arrangement of sexual convenience, with implications of exclusivity.”

  “Oh, my,” Aelliana murmured.

  She’s young, Daav countered. And I will own, my lady, were we both embodied . . .

  “True.”

  The captain’s eyebrows had lifted. She glanced at the man beside her.

  “Hear that?” she said in Terran. “Convenient.”

  He moved his shoulders. “The interpretation of custom is uniquely subject to error, as even the most careful scholar will confess.”

  Hazenthull stirred. “If the captain pleases,” she managed in her ragged Terran. “Does this mean that ‘lifemate’ is not a sexual architecture?”

  “In general, it is,” the captain said slowly. “In specific, it’s a lot more. Nelirikk’ll fill you in, and you can mince it up into Rifle-size pieces. If you wanna go through with it, that is. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to have nothing to do with swearing to Line yos’Phelium. Nelirikk can fill you in on that, too.”