by Sharon Lee
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “They are the equations we are given, and when the time comes, we will fly them. I depend on Scholar dea’Syl’s genius—and the skill of the best damn’ pilot Jela had ever known.”
And who was she, Cantra thought, suddenly tired, to snatch hope out of the boy’s hands? He might even be right.
“All right, then,” she said, making her voice easy and light. She crossed over and took up a lean against the pilot’s chair, producing a smile when he raised his head and looked at her. “Let’s take this by the numbers, if you’ll bear with me, Pilot.”
He moved his hand, fingers shaping the sign for go on.
“Right. The way it scans to me is that you’re my co-pilot, and you can handle this ship. Jela’s tree likes you, the cat likes you, Scholar dea’Syl likes you, Rool Tiazan likes you—Deeps, I think even Wellik likes you! Certain-sure Jela liked you, or he wouldn’t never have given you care of the scholar and sent you on ahead. All those upstanding folk liking you, trusting you—that weighs with me, Pilot. I can’t think of anybody within reach who I’d rather stand as my heir and carry on with my ship.”
She paused, watching him as he stared around the tower, something like awe in his face. My ship—she could see him thinking it, he was so easy to read—and he shed a tithe of the sadness he’d been carrying with him since he’d realized his old Dejon was going to be left behind on the ground . . .
“Now, before you decide,” she said, when she’d judged he’d had time enough to feel the full wonder of someday being master of such a vessel— “before you decide, there’s something else you need to know.”
His attention was on her that fast, purple eyes non-committal in a face that had gone trader-bland. “Captain.”
Almost, Cantra grinned, which wasn’t at all what she wanted to be doing at this point. Easy to read he might be, but Tor An yos’Galan was a pilot, and a trader-trained-and-raised. Inexperience, she reminded herself, wasn’t anywhere near the same as foolhardy.
“If you stand my heir, there’s other things that’ll fall to your care with this ship, those being—” She extended her hand, fist closed, and showed him her thumb— “Jela’s tree, which he honored as a comrade and a brother-in-arms. He took my oath, that I’d keep it safe, and I’d expect you to take up that oath as your own.”
Tor An inclined his head.
Cantra raised her first finger. “Second and last—Jela’s heir will also come into your keeping, and I’ll expect you to care and nurture it as you would a child of your own body.”
The boy blinked. “Jela’s heir?” he repeated. Another blink. “You are pregnant with Jela’s child?”
“That’s right.” She said it as forthrightly as possible—and waited, not at all certain what to expect from—
He took three steps toward her, and she could see the shine of tears in his eyes. She swallowed, her throat tight and her own eyes suddenly wet.
“Captain, you are—you are not only calling heir, then. You are calling clan.”
That came from an odd trajectory. She hadn’t thought of clan, being only Torvin by Garen’s say-so. But a boy from an old and extended family of traders and ship-masters—aye, he’d think clan right enough, and most especially as he’d lost all that they’d been.
And, really, she thought, what difference? Clan served her purpose as well as heir, if it meant protection for the tree and the child.
The boy was looking—elsewhere, like he was seeing something or someone she couldn’t. “Yes,” he said softly, in that thinking-out-loud voice she’d already heard him use at the board. “Yes, this will be good. It will be good. There is strength in clan. And the contract—the contract will be properly then between clans, and less easy to ignore, come time to collect our fee.” His eyes focused on her face again. “But our clan will need a name!”
Cantra felt something unknot in her chest, like maybe there’d been cargo twine around her heart, and it had suddenly come loose. But—
“Let’s name the ship first, hey?” she said, keeping it light and easy. “And I’ll tell you straight, Pilot, I don’t know anything about starting up a clan—”
He smiled at her.
“Nor do I. However, we are fortunate in our acquaintance. The dea’Gauss is one who oversees contracts and alliances, and who understands the measuring of such things. I doubt he would refuse a request for his assistance in this matter.”
And there it was again, Cantra thought. Co-pilot taking co-pilot care. The boy was sound. He’d do.
He’d have to do.
“So, we’ll ask dea’Gauss to do the pretty for us. Right. Now—ship name, Pilot? Didn’t you never think of your own ship when you was a kid?”
Amusement glimmered in those improbable eyes.
“What, the son of a trading house and never dare dream of my own ship? I’d hardly have made pilot if I hadn’t that much spark!”
True enough. She gave him an encouraging smile and set herself to coaxing him. Pretty soon she had two names—one a pure kid super-duper-hero-pilot name that he’d been slightly embarrassed to admit to, and the other a solid, sober kind of a name for a ship, with the tang of optimism about it.
“I like that,” she said, meaning it. “And we’ll hope it’s true-named.” She nodded at the paperwork still in his hand. “Fill it in, if you will, Pilot. Quick Passage.”
THIRTY-ONE
Quick Passage
THE BOY WAS ON COMM when Cantra came into the tower from her latest visit to the passenger bays. She walked past the tree, lashed good and tight in its position; dropped into the pilot’s chair and leaned her head back, watching him through half-closed eyes. He flicked a toggle and general audio came live.
“We’ve got a clean reading on all automatic transponders and passive visuals.” That was Solcintra Station—which was pushing its inspection a bit, in Cantra’s opinion. “Quick Passage, home port Solcintra, owner Cantra yos’Phelium. Active visual check in progress—looks like you’ve still got a blue beacon where you should have a green at degree one-eighty . . .”
The boy tipped his head, and tapped his left ear—a sign to her that he had another party on the line.
“The crew boat suggests that your inspection is before-time, Solcintra Station,” he said politely, which if it was Vachik at comm on the ‘boat, took considerable liberty with what had most likely been said.
There was a slight pause, then Station again, sounding to Cantra’s ear just a thought apologetic.
“Acknowledge that, Quick Passage. Will relay—merely an activity report.”
“Thank you, Station. Quick Passage out.” He closed the connection, and paused with his hand over the second toggle, his nose wrinkled slightly while doubtless having his ear filled with the Deeps knew what ribald and outrageous nonsense, Vachik having taken it as a hobby to try and rattle the boy’s reserve.
“As to that, I couldn’t say, Pilot,” Tor An murmured, not noticeably rattled. “Quick Passage out.” He snapped the toggle and sighed, pulling the bud out of his ear as he spun his chair to face her.
“Vachik’s amused by Station, is he?” she asked laconically. Tor An stretched, putting the seams of his handsome embroidered tunic at risk.
“Pilot Vachik points out that Station oversteps,” he said serenely. “Which it had, and now does not. How does the boarding go on?”
“Not quite a riot. It’s a rare wonder what having a couple brace o’nice X Strains monitoring the intakes will do for the general level of politeness.”
Nalli Olanek hadn’t wanted to swallow the limit on baggage, claiming her folk would be reasonable—which they hadn’t been, not by any measure known to ship-dwellers. So, there’d had to be a limit set, which the captain did, and then there had to be arguments from the Speaker and her seconds, from which young Tor An had excused himself, returning some few minutes bearing the message that Captain Wellik had approved the guards she’d requested, and they stood ready to take her orders.
> That had solved the immediate problem, without bloodshed—though she figured they’d bought future grief. Stipulating there was a future. And not to say, she thought fair-mindedly, that the boy’s notion had been off-course, which it hadn’t.
It was turning out to be the case that Pilot Tor An had a good many useful notions in that pretty head of his.
It had, for an instance, been his notion—thinking out loud in her direction, as was his habit—that since they didn’t have full-time military staffing, maybe they didn’t need the extra officer-training seat there in the middle of the tower . . . and that maybe that seat lock and mounting block would make a better lash-point for the tree than ever they’d be able to cobble in a corner with twine and tape.
“Assuming, of course,” he’d said to nothing and nobody in particular, “that the captain would prefer to have the tree ship in the tower, rather than in its own cargo-pod.”
That cargo-pod idea hadn’t played well to the green crew at all, and it hadn’t quite seemed right to her either. She’d gotten used to having the tree in her eye, and having it mumble its pictures at the back of her head. Apparently, the tree had gotten used to her, too, and used to being part of the tower crew.
“Sergeant Ilneri and Pilot Argast report that three of our proposed back-up pilots test well,” Tor An said softly. “The fourth was found inadequate and returned to port.”
She nodded. “Saw Ilneri on the way back up and he gave me the news.”
He’d also insisted she take another tour of work-almost-complete, over which Jela’s mates labored, as far as she could tell, non-stop. Kinda spooky, were Jela’s mates, for as hard as they’d taken the news of his dying, it seemed to hearten them to know he’d last been seen trying to take someone’s head off with that nasty flexible cutter of his . . . and everywhichone of them still talked like he was hanging over their shoulders, insisting on nothing less than perfect.
“The dea’Gauss will be here shortly,” Tor An said carefully, interrupting that line of thought. “Will you wish to dress for the ceremony?”
Ceremony. All they were set to do was sign some local legal papers, but the kid had built it up in his mind into a ceremony, and had gotten himself dressed up proper to face it. She eyed the tunic—space black, with the star-holding dragon that’d been the chop for Alkia Trade Clan embroidered on shoulder and sleeve in gold and silver thread. He’d brushed his bright hair ‘til it gleamed and even shined his boots. By contrast, she felt nothing but grubby in her leathers.
Ceremony, she thought sourly, and caught a glimmer of wing and branch from the tree.
“Right,” she said, levering herself out of the pilot’s chair. “I’ll be a minute.”
THE NON-DESCRIPT MAN with the surprisingly bold brown eyes was dressed neat and respectful in pale tunic and pants. He had placed two black, silver-edged folios before him on the fold-out worktable; a flat wooden box was at his right hand, and a small satchel that looked like a traveling bag sat quietly by his feet.
Looking down at the table, he touched the flat box—mayhap for luck—took a visible breath, and raised his head.
“We are ready, I believe,” he said quietly. “I am dea’Gauss; I have been requested to oversee the establishment of a clan new to Solcintra and to known space, and I am recognized by the Solcintra Accountants Guild as a member in good standing.”
Here he paused, very briefly, and looked about the tower before continuing.
“As required by the protocols of the Accountants Guild, I bring with me three persons of known character and unallied clan, each to witness as they will. They arrive knowing that they witness, and they declare themselves individually disinterested observers of the event at hand.”
Cantra faced dea’Gauss across the work desk, dressed as formally as her small kit allowed, the boy at her side. The strangers—witnesses—stood behind them, and behind them was the tree, which comforted her some, even as she could feel it paying attention real hard—and behind the tree stood Argast, acting half as honor guard and half as pilot-in-waiting in case the ship required something during the course of the ceremony.
Meanwhile, dea’Gauss was talking again.
“In so far as Solcintra and its population have an interest in the careful arrangement of debts and balances, of property and ownership, of precedence and inheritance, of honor and responsibility, of melant’i and necessity, and of actions which permit the public good, it is meet and fitting that individuals join together into such groups and organizations which present the opportunity for surety in relationships and commerce. We witness here today the signing and sealing of documents representing the establishment of a particular group which names itself Clan Korval. This group . . .”
Cantra glanced to the side, caught the kid’s eyes on her and the flicker of fingers—acceptable course?
Korval? Well, it was better than Valkor, the other combo possible from the two syllables deemed most propitious by means she hadn’t cared to inquire into—and she had shunted the details of the paperwork to him.
She returned clear lift! and felt him relax beside her.
“. . . has control and ownership of respectable properties, is peopled by individuals known as reliable and forthright, and has established a clear lineage and succession. Clan Korval honors the absent M. Jela Granthor’s Guard as Founder and acknowledges duties, goals, heirs, debts, property, responsibility and melant’i deriving from the Founder.”
Cantra stood, breath-caught, and damn’ if she didn’t feel tears prickling at the edges of her eyes—
In her head, a flutter of images: A tree dropped a pod across a thin river, that pod grew into a tree, in its turn dropping a pod . . .
“Clan Korval is composed of two lines until and unless the Clan shall choose otherwise. The predominant line is yos’Phelium, currently headed by Cantra yos’Phelium. The subordinate line is yos’Galan, currently headed by Tor An yos’Galan.”
She blinked and sent another glance to the boy, meeting a slight smile. She’d’ve thought they’d share—but no, he had the right of it again. He was her heir, and his part was to support her—co-pilot to pilot. They both knew that protocol, down deep in their bones. She just hoped any of it lasted longer that them getting out of orbit and starting the transition run . . .
“The Clan together acknowledges the duties, goals, heirs, debts, property, responsibility, and melant’i of these line heads as its own and from this day forward all within the Clan will be governed, judged, rewarded, punished, and otherwise dealt with as the Clan requires within its own written code of conduct. All actions performed individually or in unison reflect the Clan and the Clan holds ultimate responsibility for its members. Formed in orbit around Solcintra, Clan Korval looks for council and fellowship from the Fifty High Houses of Solcintra, and the Council of the Fifty High Houses of Solcintra will honor Korval as a member, as well.”
This last was spoken just a little more firmly than what had gone before, as if maybe dea’Gauss wasn’t one-hundred-percent certain that the new High Council would find Korval an ornament to itself.
“Clan Korval exists,” dea’Gauss said, back to quiet now. “May its name shine and its deeds endure.”
Beside her, she heard a discreet sniffle, and damn’ if she wasn’t tearing up again herself. She blinked. Clan Korval. And Jela listed down as Founder, all right and proper. Almost—almost, she could hear him laughing . . .
The accountant bowed deeply—first to Tor An, then to herself. Straightening, he opened the right-most of the two black-and-silver folios.
“If the line heads will be good enough to sign here, with the subordinate line signing first and the predominant line after, we shall witness and seal.”
Sign they did—first the boy, precise and unornamented. He passed the pen to her and stood to one side as she wrote out her name, the ink that same shade of purple that flickered along the far edge of the Rim . . .
Cantra yos’Phelium. She blinked down at the shape of it al
ong the cream-colored page; took a breath to steady herself and signed the second book, too.
She put the pen down, and the tree let loose with a burst of flying dragons so bright and joyous she went back a step—and bumped right into the kid, who caught her arm, and whispered, for her ears alone, and like it was the most natural thing ever— “Jela’s tree rejoices. It is rightly done.”
“Who’m I to argue with a vegetable?” she muttered back, and heard him laugh softly while the witnesses filed up one at a time and put their signatures down in the books.
That done, dea’Gauss opened the flat box and removed a little gizmo, which he activated and touched to her signature and to Tor An’s, leaving a disk of green wax on each.
He stowed the gizmo, sealed the box, and waved a cautious hand over the wax to be sure it was cool before he closed the first book and handed it to her, with a bow so deep she feared for his back.
“Korval, I am honored.”
It struck her then and only then—that the lines she’d just signed tied her as close as she’d ever been tied in her life. Clan Korval, she thought, half wildly. Kid, tree, ship and all.
She took a hard breath and centered herself, managing to return the accountant’s bow with the respect he’d earned.
“Mr. dea’Gauss,” she murmured, “the honor is mine.”
AFTER A SERIES OF bows and formal well-wishings, the witnesses were escorted out by Argast. Mr. dea’Gauss was carefully fitting the second signed book into an archive envelope, being fussy about seating the corners just so.
“We are led to understand that the planet itself is in danger,” he said, his eyes on his task, “and thus it was only prudence that moved the High-Houses-that-were to bear the archives of Council and Law with them. I cannot reproduce the reasoning which would have caused them to destroy the secondary archives, nor was the Accountants Guild asked to render an opinion prior to this action. Communications from those who had been the Elders of the Service Families directed to the escape ships are rejected.” He glanced up.