Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  The search continued, of course. Pat Rin yos’Phelium—a creature of self-indulgence, a slave to play and pleasure—was certain to err, soon or late. And when he did, the Department would move.

  In the meanwhile, the Juntavas was being dealt—

  “ . . . Surebleak Port!” The radio chirped.

  Commander of Agents froze, and turned to stare at the tiny device. “Our duty free shop boasts a variety of local fresh fruit ciders and jams; made-by-hand rugs; pigup sticks made from local woods, and much more! And while you’re on port, don’t forget to visit the Emerald Casino. It’s all here at pilot-friendly Surebleak Port!”

  Surebleak, the supposed homeworld of Tiazan’s so-called Miri Robertson. Pilot-friendly Surebleak Port.

  Commander of Agents allowed himself a smile.

  DAY 53

  Standard Year 1393

  Dutiful Passage

  Lytaxin Orbit

  RUNNING, he cut the corner into the main hall close, skidded and threw himself into a somersault in order to avoid the collision.

  He landed on his feet by the opposite wall, and only then saw who he had very nearly run down.

  “Captain.” He bowed deeply, feeling his face heat.

  “Alas, no longer,” Shan yos’Galan said calmly. “But don’t, I beg you, be cast into despondency on my account! The truth is that I am perfectly well-satisfied to retire to the rank of master trader and laze through every shift while Priscilla and yourself accomplish the hard work between you.”

  This was a pleasantry, as Ren Zel well knew, and felt relief, that the cap—that Master Trader yos’Galan’s experience of war had not altered him out of recognition.

  “But tell me, do! Wherever were you rushing off to at such a pace?”

  He bit his lip. “I am late to my shift on the bridge.”

  “A grievous thing, I agree.” The silver eyes considered him, and there was something—someone . . .

  “I wonder,” Shan said, interrupting his line of thought, “not that it’s any business of mine, of course! But, still, I do wonder what has happened to your jacket?”

  “My—” He looked down at his arm, blinking. Why in the names of the gods had he been sleeping in his jacket? “I—” he began again and tentatively, unbelievingly, ran his hand down the unmarred leather sleeve. Memory stirred and he saw her again in the starlight, taking his jacket—All honor to it—and shaking it, shaking it out . . .

  He looked up and met Shan yos’Galan’s silver eyes and it came to him all at once where he had seen the like.

  Ren Zel took a deep breath. “I had—a dream,” he said, knowing that it explained nothing.

  “I would say that you had quite a marvelous dream,” Shan said, straightening from his lean against the wall. He beckoned, the master trader’s ring blazing purple fires.

  “Come along, child. We’d best sort this out.”

  ***

  “WILL YOU HAVE wine, friend?” Shan yos’Galan asked, some few moments later in the captain’s private office.

  Ren Zel hesitated, thinking of wine on an empty stomach after an evening, or so his memory insisted, rich in exercise.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that I would rather—tea.”

  “And something with which to break your fast,” Shan said, leaning to the comm unit. Priscilla was standing near the sofa, Ren Zel’s mysteriously healed jacket held in her two hands, her eyes intent and her face peculiarly unfocussed.

  “Thank you, BillyJo,” Shan said into the comm. “It’s good to hear your voice again, too.”

  Priscilla blinked, and sighed, as if the jacket were too heavy for her. Ren Zel stepped forward to take it out of her hands, his fingers delighting in the supple new feel of the leather.

  “Well?” Shan asked, leaning a hip against the desk.

  “Anthora,” she said, “definitely Anthora. She’s the only wizard I know who might have done something like this so seamlessly.” She sighed once more. “Breakfast?”

  “On the way.”

  “Good.” She looked to Ren Zel and moved a hand, inviting him to take one of the two easy chairs as she sank down onto the sofa.

  “I think you had better tell us about this—dream.”

  ***

  BREAKFAST ARRIVED as he was describing the garden with its massive tree and welcoming cat. He made a detour there, to summarize the previous dream and the impossible whisker caught in his coverlet. Shan put a plate in his hand, and he ate, not really attending, his mind on the memory of the dream, straining for every nuance, every description.

  They listened silently, captain and master trader. At some point in the narration the comm buzzed, and by silent agreement it was the master trader who rose to answer.

  Finally, he reached an end, and looked down into a teacup he did not recall emptying, and back to Priscilla’s brilliant, dramliza eyes.

  “It was a dream,” he said, for perhaps the dozenth time.

  “I don’t believe that it was just a dream,” Priscilla said gently.

  “Other parties are likewise unconvinced,” Shan added, lounging beside her on the couch. “That comm call was an encoded pinbeam from Jelaza Kazone.” He looked at Ren Zel, slanting brows high, silver eyes—amused?

  “My sister Anthora wishes to advise her elder and her thodelm of the fact of her lifemating with Ren Zel dea’Judan, first mate of Dutiful Passage. Very proper of her, don’t you agree?”

  EROB’S CLANHOUSE:

  Lytaxin

  “HAVE I HEARD from Pat Rin?” Nova’s golden brows pulled together, and she shook her head. “But I have been off-grid, you know, brother, and involved in other matters. It is true that I have not heard from Pat Rin, but it is equally true that I have not heard from Anthora.”

  They’d invited Nova to a dawn breakfast, after which they would escort her to the spaceport and the shuttle that would take her up to the Passage. For now, they sat on the balcony of their guesting suite, eating warm rolls, soft cheese and fresh fruit, beneath an orange-and-silver sky.

  “Well enough,” Val Con murmured, breaking open a roll. “But am I correct in recalling that there is a check-in protocol? For instance, had we been less engaged elsewhere, we might have accessed the pirate’s band and sent an all’s well.”

  “Pirate band?” Miri asked, spreading cheese on her roll.

  “It is not really a pirate band,” Nova said. “Shan began calling it that to irritate our father, and I believe—although I am certain he will correct me if I am in error—that Val Con began using it to irritate Cousin Kareen.” She moved her shoulders. “In any case, it’s simply a private clan-held frequency.”

  “As if I would ever wish to irritate my Aunt Kareen,” Val Con said softly, and glanced over, green eyes warm. “We must get thee to a library, my lady. You have quite a lot of reading to do.”

  “Suits. Call me when the war’s over.”

  Nova frowned, which she seemed to do a lot. “We are not going to war!”

  Miri blinked at her, looked to Val Con. “We ain’t?”

  “It is like the pirate’s band,” he explained kindly. “If we call it a war, we will annoy Nova.”

  She grinned. “Got it.”

  “Val Con—”

  “Is there a way to access the log,” he interrupted, softly. “To see who has and has not checked in?”

  “Yes, certainly. I can do so from Erob’s comm room, if you wish. Indeed, you should have the new codes. Sit with me and I will give them you.” She hesitated, and the frown this time seemed more worried than irritated, to Miri’s sharpening eye.

  “I wonder, brother—have you had ill-news of Pat Rin?”

  “Ill-news—no,” he said slowly, and Miri felt him picking his words with careful precision. “Say rather that we have . . . inconclusive news, and wish to assure ourselves that he is well.” He extended a hand and lay it briefly over Nova’s where it lay fisted beside her plate.

  “I do not wish to distress you—I know that you and he are fri
ends.”

  “Insofar as Pat Rin allows himself to be anyone’s friend,” she said, sharply.

  “But truly,” she said, after a long moment, probably to reassure herself, “he should be well. Pat Rin is very far from a fool—and Shan had hired him an extremely portwise pilot.”

  “Shan hired Pat Rin’s pilot?” Val Con said, incredulously. “Matters must be very changed between them.”

  “Say rather that it was Shan’s idea to place Mr. McFarland as Pat Rin’s pilot, when he came to us with the message from Edger. It was in the clan’s interest that Mr. McFarland not return . . . immediately to his usual rounds, and Pat Rin was preparing for one of his tours. Mr. McFarland was willing to be hired, and Pat Rin was willing—after I spoke to him, for I will not hide from you, brother, that of course Shan put his back up—to hire. So it was done. I checked Mr. McFarland’s credentials myself—and Anthora pronounced him an honorable man.”

  “Well, then, it sounds as if our cousin is both well-served and well-protected,” Val Con said, after a moment, being so careful Miri felt an ache starting between her eyebrows. “Doubtless our check of the roll will establish him in comfortable safety, and only a little bored.”

  “As to that,” Nova murmured, “he had used to say that he would welcome being marooned on a backward world for a relumma or two, so that he might catch up on his reading.”

  There didn’t seem much to say to that, Miri thought, polishing off the last bit of roll with mingled relish and regret.

  Apparently Val Con thought the same.

  “Tell me,” he said, reaching for his teacup. “Have you found all the citations you require to make our case before Council?”

  “Not all, certainly, but a good start has been made,” Nova answered, pushing her plate aside. “The Passage carries the full text of the Diaries, as well as the Council book. I will be able to conclude my research en route and be ready to stand before Council the day we raise Liad.”

  Val Con looked at her, one eyebrow up. “But you will not do so,” he suggested. “Until you have had word from your delm.”

  She sighed. “I will, of course, await the delm’s word.”

  “Good,” Val Con smiled, though to Miri he felt more wary than approving, and drank his tea.

  ***

  ANTHORA LEANED back in her chair, silver eyes focused on a point just above and light years beyond the top of the comm unit.

  Mr. dea’Gauss had her instructions regarding the settlements, which he was to send to Ren Zel, for approval or adjustment. She had herself ’beamed the Passage with the proper announcement to her thodelm, which might very well amuse Shan, but for Ren Zel one would behave well and do everything that was proper. He should not suffer wounds on her account—he had wounds enough.

  That she knew his wounds as her own was—piquant. That he would have acquired a similarly intimate knowledge of herself was—not harrowing; not quite that. She was, after all, of the dramliz, and accustomed to interfacing with her fellows and with some of the stronger Healers. Those interfacings were of necessity less absolute than the immediate and complete merging which had joined her to Ren Zel last evening; and while there was no help for it now—and while she would not trade this morning for last—she did rather wish that she had been . . . more decorous at some times in the past.

  That Ren Zel would forgive her transgressions, she knew. Had he lived other than an exemplary and blameless life, she would have freely forgiven him all his sins. They could neither do otherwise, as closely as they were joined—in all but body.

  Anthora sighed. She had felt his absence keenly this morning, when she had woken from her second sleep to find herself solitary in the tumbled bed. More than that, she had felt some alarm. Surely, he had expended enormous amounts of energy in his walk from the Passage to her bedroom. To make a like expenditure so soon after the first, and, moreover, a half-night of enthusiastic lovemaking, was foolhardy in the extreme. She would not have wished to undertake such a course, and she knew herself for a wizard of stamina, and will.

  In fact, she thought, how had he managed that walk? She could quite understand the process—it was, after all, very similar to a piloting problem—but she was not persuaded that she could reproduce the effect . . .

  She straightened in her chair, frowning as she tried to reconcile the equation.

  The comm unit chimed.

  Anthora jumped, blinked, and leaned forward to accept the call.

  She blinked again as the screen coalesced into an image of a dark-haired woman in the uniform of a Clerk of the Council of Clans. The woman bowed, from greater to lesser, by which Anthora understood that the Clerk was speaking on behalf of the entire Council of Clans, by order of the Speaker.

  “Do I address Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval?”

  Anthora inclined her head a fraction, striving for Nova’s air of cool competence.

  “You do.”

  “Speaker for Council requires Korval’s presence at a full meeting of the clans scheduled tomorrow for the hour after midday. Korval has been called upon to answer certain very serious charges.”

  “What charges?” Anthora demanded. “And who accuses us?”

  “I am not authorized to divulge that information. Because of the seriousness of the charges, Speaker for Council will assess Korval one Class A Jump ship for every day it fails to send a representative to answer.”

  Anthora glared at her, which the Clerk bore with patience. Behind the glare, her mind raced.

  The Council was empowered to levy penalties for a failure to comply with its rule. The weight of this threatened levy argued the presence of serious charges indeed, though what they might be—

  Really, she thought, there was no choice. She could hardly explain that with Plan B in effect there was quite simply no way that she could authorize turning a ship—any ship, down to the meanest two-place shuttle—over to the Council. dea’Gauss himself could not order it done. She considered quickly. The Council knew Korval would not relish the loss of ship, so she must let them believe that their threat was potent. To tell them that Korval would resist any such attempt was folly. . . .

  And, surely, she thought, she would be safe in the very Council hall.

  Once again, she inclined her head that austere and irritating inch.

  “I thank Speaker for Council, but there is no need to descend to threats. I will attend the meeting scheduled for the hour after midday tomorrow and will answer all charges then.”

  REN ZEL had been excused from his shift on the bridge; another pilot set, by the captain’s word, to cover his board. Truly, he would have rather been allowed to escape back into routine, to explore the strange dream that was not a dream in his own way and come to terms with his . . . with his lifemating.

  For it seemed he was no longer clanless, outcast—dead. Abruptly, he had kin to care for—Shan yos’Galan was his brother, Priscilla Mendoza, his sister. He found another sister in Nova yos’Galan—she who was no longer Korval-pernard’i, for the news from the planet was that Val Con yos’Phelium had taken up the Ring and his rightful melant’i as Korval. Which was well for the clan, Ren Zel thought, distractedly—clans should be properly led by the delm, rather than held in trust, year upon long year . . .

  In a daze, he had received the kiss of his thodelm and thodelmae; immediately thereafter, Priscilla had accessed the ship’s roll and amended his file. Dutiful Passage had previously known him as a pilot; now it knew him as a pilot of Korval.

  “You look shell-shocked, child,” Shan said to him, sometime after the second pinbeam arrived from Liad, this from a certain dea’Gauss, directed to Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Korval. Printed, this document occupied several sheets and proved, to his horrified eyes, to be a list of the properties, funds, and quartershare settled upon him.

  “I—it is too much,” he had managed, not quite certain himself if he was referring to the settlements—offered his choice of no less than three Class A Jumps!—or the abrupt and . . . irregular . .
. alteration in his melant’i.

  “Yes, I can understand how it might be. Anthora’s a minx, and never fear that I will tell her so at my earliest opportunity.”

  Memory showed him the lady in question, her breasts heavy in his hands as she poised teasingly above him, her hair woven with starlight . . .

  Face hot, he looked down at the printout.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered, “not entirely a minx.”

  There was a small pause. “Well, I am glad to hear you say so. For I will not scruple to tell you that—as much as I enter into your entirely reasonable dismay of the process—I wish you will accommodate yourself to these new arrangements, and allow us to embrace you fully. The clan can only be richer by your lifemating. Certainly, yos’Galan does rejoice in receiving you, and I am delighted in my new brother.”

  The printout smeared out of sense, as tears rose, and—shame to him—spilled over. In the act of throwing his arm up to shield his face, he recalled that it was no shame at all to share one’s joy with . . . kin.

  Nor was it useful to water the printout beyond readability. He made some shift to bring himself under control, and looked up to meet Shan’s serious silver eyes.

  “I wonder if I might have some time to . . . myself,” he said tentatively. “I wish to relocate center, so that I may accommodate myself—and serve the clan usefully.”

  Shan grinned. “As to that, I have no fear at all. But, go, rest yourself, settle your mind. Come to us for prime, eh? And after that, I swear we will allow you to return to the comforts of your schedule.”

  And so Ren Zel had escaped, at least to the familiarity of his own cabin. Now, showered, and fulfilled by one of BillyJo’s sandwiches, he lay himself down to sleep—and, in sleeping, dreamed.

  He dreamed a starmap—the starmap: Balent’i tru’vad, the starweb of all creation. Vast, awesome in its balances and harmony, it lay revealed before him: suns, stars, worlds, lives, glittering, busy and inevitable. And throughout it all, woven into the very fabric of the universe, golden lines of power, such as he had first beheld in Anthora yos’Galan’s chamber.