A Liaden Universe® Constellation: Volume Two

by Sharon Lee

  A wholly unexceptional procedure, Pat Rin thought, and not at all too much effort to expend for the pleasure of one’s host. He was slightly warm, but nothing that another glass of cider couldn’t put—

  “All right,” Cheever McFarland was saying, his big voice shattering the quiet. “That’s what a round dance looks in Boss Conrad’s old turf. Now we’re gonna show you how I learned it. First thing you’ll notice different, are the cues. Pilots, they can’t leave anything alone if there’s a way to maybe tweak it. Next thing you’ll notice is there’s some extra bits added in, ’cause pilots tend toward boredom and makin’ trouble if they don’t have six things to do at the same time.”

  Pat Rin frowned and turned to cock an eyebrow at Nova, who replied with a bland glance that would have done justice to his mother.

  “Last thing,” Cheever was saying, “is that pilots? They’re competitive. So this dance, it’s a kind of a contest, too.”

  Contest? thought Pat Rin, feeling his stomach tighten. He looked across the circle for Natesa, but she was turned away, watching something in the room beyond.

  “Just as soon as the band’s ready,” Cheever said.

  The drummer snapped out a twelve-count, then the guitar came in, followed by the fiddle, the omnichora singing softly in support. The tune was somewhat brisker than Tiordia’s Stroll—and completely unfamiliar.

  “Acknowledge your co-pilot,” Cheever instructed, and Pat Rin turned to exchange bows with Nova, who smiled at him.

  “Comp—” he began, but—

  “Check your board,” Cheever called, which Pat Rin’s feet somehow knew to be a glide and change sides.

  “Bring up the screens!”

  Warned by the set of Nova’s hip, Pat Rin managed to spin as instructed, though raggedly.

  “Strap in,” Cheever instructed. Nova’s hand moved, Pat Rin caught it in his; they turned, separated—

  “Lift!”—each danced six steps to their right—“Establish orbit!”—a half-turn, so Pat Rin was looking over Nova’s shoulder at the starry rug that had covered the floor in Luken’s small private parlor in their quarters above the warehouse—

  “Outer ring adjust,” Cheever said. Pat Rin kept his place while Nova slid three steps to left. His view of the rug was now unimpeded.

  “Lay in coords!” Cheever called.

  Lay in—

  But Cheever was giving the coordinates. Rapidly. Pat Rin focused on the rug—on the map—found the first coord, slid forward two steps, located the second, slipped to the left three steps, the third—the third? There!—and forward again, four steps.

  “Roll starboard!” came the instruction, and Pat Rin spun to the right with the rest, noting in a sort of mental gasp that the music was moving quicker now, that the ’chora’s voice was louder, and the fiddle’s entirely gone.

  “Lay in coords!”

  This time, it wasn’t a complete shock; Pat Rin had time to face the map—the less familiar rug that had graced the school-room floor at Trealla Fantrol—and focus before Cheever intoned the first coord, then another, and another—a set of six full coordinates this time, and Pat Rin slipped, spun, circled, and lunged as directed, finishing the sequence damp and limp, but oddly triumphant. He hadn’t missed a step!

  Luken, however, had not had the same good fortune. Pat Rin spied him walking away from the circle, Andy Mack leaving the crowd at the edge of the rug to meet him—then Cheever called them to roll once more and he was facing the map from Jelaza Kazone.

  The music was much too quick now, Pat Rin thought, tucking up his lace, and shaking his hair out of his eyes. More a jig than a round dance, which the ’chora gave shape in a continuing twisty flow of brilliantine notes.

  Val Con must be ready to drop, he thought—and there was another thought, linked to that—but it was lost in the need to accept the coordinates, and he plotted his course with his feet and his hips, barely registering when Miri dropped out at the eighth coord—and Priscilla, at the twelfth.

  The next round came and as he glimpsed the nearest celestial rug, he all but felt the controls beneath his hands; in truth he missed the cabin of Fortune’s Reward, as he missed the thrust against his back, and the comfort of sitting First Board. The rug was before him, and another as he danced, and the calculations went thus and so and turn and step, and by rights now there should be jump-glare and stars on the screens ahead, and stars behind, with stars underfoot, and a planet to find.

  But the dance—

  “Orient!” Cheever called, and the four remaining dancers came together in the center, joined hands, ran—too fast! Pat Rin thought, with a sudden spike of panic—’round, three times, six—

  “Establish orbit!”

  As one, they dropped hands, each spinning away from every, two-four-six revolutions, and came to rest, facing—the entranced spectators.

  At the fore of them all stood his mother, considering him with a sort of distant interest, as one might inspect an insect.

  “Check your board!” Cheever directed, and Pat Rin executed the required glide and change, aware of the weight of his limbs. It was hot, and his head ached, and, really, he had every reason to be tire—

  The omnichora shouted, notes streaming like lift beacons, and there was Miri next to his mother, and Priscilla approaching—

  “Lay in coords!”

  There was no map this time. Pat Rin closed his eyes.

  Cheever chanted the coordinates—a short set of three. Forward, back, turn left—

  “Sign your co-pilot!”

  Pat Rin extended a hand—and his eyes snapped open in astonishment as it was caught in a warm grip.

  “Well done!” Uncle Daav whispered, under cover of the music, and—

  “Clear your board!”

  The two of them crossed, separated, and came back together.

  “Lock it down!”

  Natesa’s fingers wove comfortably with his. Shan, on her other side, extended his hand and caught Daav’s free hand.

  “Dim the lights,” Cheever said softly, and the four of them walked sedately widdershins, three times, the ’chora slowing, slowing, almost down to a proper round . . .

  “Open hatch.”

  Obediently, they dropped hands.

  “Go to town,” Cheever all but whispered, and the four of them turned to face the rug and those watching, as the ’chora finished with a flurry and a flare—and the shouts and whistles began.

  * * *

  PAT RIN SHOOK HIS lace out and reached for his glass. With Natesa’s connivance, he’d slipped through the crowd to the back room that had been set aside for the band’s use. Finding a bottle of autumn wine before him, he poured and sipped, and sipped once again before making the attempt to make himself seemly.

  The dance—the dance had been an odd thing, to be sure; in memory not nearly so harrowing as in actuality. Had it gone on much longer, he had no doubt but that he would have joined Luken, Miri, and Priscilla at his mother’s side.

  He paused, frowning, recalling the moment when he had met his mother’s eyes . . .

  “Ah, here he is, keeping the wine to himself!” Clonak ter’Meulen’s voice overfilled the little room. Pat Rin sighed, and turned to face not only the portly scout, but Luken and Daav, and Shan, Priscilla, Natesa, Andy Mack, Nova, Cheever, Miri—and Val Con, green eyes sparkling, the renegade lock of hair sticking damply to his forehead.

  “Well met, Cousin,” he murmured, and Pat Rin held out his glass.

  “I thought the ’chora was overextended,” he said. “Drink.”

  “My thanks.” Val Con took the glass and sipped; sighed. Pat Rin considered him, doing a different sort of calculation.

  “More clarity?” he asked, but it was Miri who answered.

  “No complaints, Boss. Sent you a clue, fair and square,” she said.

  He eyed her. “Hardly in advance.”

  “But in advance, nonetheless,” Val Con said, with a note of finality in his quiet voice. “Come, let us not bicker
. There is business to be done—and quickly, so that Clonak is not long kept from the wine.”

  “That’s a touching regard for my well-being,” Clonak said, and suddenly pulled himself up straight, looking not so pudgy, nor foolish at all.

  “Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” he intoned, the syllables of the High Tongue falling cool and sharp from his lips, “has stated in the hearing of pilots and of master pilots not once but several times that he holds a first-class limited license under false pretenses. The pilot’s solo rating flight was conducted in a Korval safeship, programmed to fly, should there be no pilot available. Pat Rin yos’Phelium has stated his belief that it was the ship which overcame the challenges of the pilot’s solo, not the pilot.” Clonak gave Pat Rin a level look.

  “These are serious concerns and the pilot erred not in laying them before master pilots. Therefore, and after consultation, it was agreed that a retesting should be done. The testing is now completed, and I call upon the master pilots present to render their opinions: is Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval a pilot or does he hold a license wrongly? Speak, Masters!”

  Daav stepped forward, black eyes serious.

  “Though he is perhaps not as conversant with the basic coord book as might be desirable, it is my estimation as a master pilot that Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries.” He fell back a step, cocking an eyebrow at Andy Mack, lounging against the wall. The lanky pilot shook his head, white hair moving softly across his shoulders, and took a sip of his beer.

  “Been sayin’ it, ain’t I? Boy’s a pilot. Tell by lookin’ at him.”

  Shan stepped forward. “It is my estimation as a master pilot,” he said seriously, “that Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries.” He fell back a step, and Priscilla came forward, then Nova, Cheever and at last Natesa, who made her declaration with the cool, emotionless intonation of a Judge, then smiled at him and stepped forward to take his hand.

  “You did well, Pat Rin,” she murmured.

  “In fact,” said Clonak, “he did. I say this as one who doubted the damn dance would work out at all, but young Shadow carried the day. So,” he looked sharply at Pat Rin. “In my estimation as a master pilot, having observed the whole of the testing, Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries and I’ll thank you to stop doubting yourself, you young whippersnapper! Between you and your lady mother, you’re a devil’s brew, make no mistake!”

  Pat Rin blinked. “My mother?”

  “It happens,” Priscilla said surprisingly, “that Lady Kareen is, after all, of the dramliz. She appears to have only one talent, which is rare, but not unknown.”

  Pat Rin looked at her, foreknowing . . . “And that talent is?”

  Priscilla smiled at him. “She may impose her will—to a very limited extent—upon the unwary.” Her smiled deepened. “And now that you are warned, you are armed.”

  His mother a dramliza? It was only slightly mad, Pat Rin thought, considering the facts of Shan and Anthora in the present generation. But that one talent . . .

  “I think you are saying that it was my mother’s influence that kept me from qualifying as pilot?”

  “At first, boy-dear,” Luken said, gently. “By the time you had failed two or three times, you were quite able to fail all on your own.” He smiled, sadly. “It was my sorrow, my boy, that I could never allow you to see anything other than your own unworthiness.”

  Pat Rin blinked against tears; Natesa’s finger’s tightened around his. “You did so much else, Father . . .”

  A small pause, and then was Val Con abruptly before him, raising his hand so that Korval’s Ring gleamed.

  Pat Rin lifted an eyebrow. “Korval?”

  “You will,” Korval stated, “arrange time to study with Clonak ter’Meulen. You will learn the core coordinates, and such protocols as Scout ter’Meulen finds worthy. You will come to your delm inside of one local year and submit to such verification as may be demanded.”

  “Ah. And my streets? My duties as Boss?”

  Val Con smiled, and put his hand on his lifemate’s shoulder.

  “You’ll think of something,” he said.

  Pat Rin drew a breath—to say what he hardly knew, or perhaps he meant only to laugh. The opportunity for either, however, was snatched from him by Cheever McFarland.

  “Right then,” the big man said. “Time to finish it up.”

  * * *

  THE FIDDLER PROVIDED a sprightly, skipping little melody as they filed into the parlor and took up position on a clear space on the rug, Val Con leaving them at the last to tend his ’chora once more.

  Pat Rin stood in the first row of pilots, Natesa on his right, Luken on his left, Daav directly behind. The room was quiet, all eyes on them. Especially, Pat Rin saw, were Lady Kareen’s eyes on them, from her position between Audrey and Penn Kalhoon. His mother’s face betrayed the faintest hint of boredom, as would perhaps be worthy of an adult who had been teased into attending a gathering of halflings.

  The fiddler finished her tune as Cheever McFarland and Miri Robertson stepped up before the rest of them, mercifully blocking Pat Rin’s view of his mother’s face. From behind, the ’chora began to whisper a faint line of a tantalizingly familiar song. Pat Rin strained his ears, trying to identify the music—then forgot about it as Cheever began to speak.

  “I’m going to impose on your patience once more, here, if Ms. Audrey’ll let me,” he said.

  In the first row, Audrey laughed, and called out, “It don’t strain my eyes any looking at you, Mr. McFarland! Speak on!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The big man bent a little at the waist—a bow, Pat Rin thought, Cheever McFarland style—then raised his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the room—and likely the rooms abovestairs, as well.

  “Now, I know you all heard me say that pilots is competitive, and you might’ve thought that just meant that them who missed their steps had to drop outta the dance. But there was a little more to it than that. We was also looking to judge who among the pilots dancing had danced best, according to their level, their flight time, and their training. Miri here—you all know Miri’s partnered with the Boss’ brother, right? And when there’s a question comes before either of them, they got this arrangement where both are understood to answer? Makes the family business run smoother. Anyhow, Miri here’s gonna announce the winner.”

  Whistles, hoots, and stamping filled the room. The drum tried to bring order, without success, until—

  “PIPE DOWN!” Miri ordered, loud enough to make Pat Rin’s ears ring—and silence fell like a knife.

  “That’s better,” she said, in a more conversational tone. “I won’t take long. Just want to say that it’s the judgment of the master pilots we assembled here to watch that the winner of tonight’s competition is—Boss Conrad!”

  More noise erupted, shaking the rugs hung against the walls, and he walked forward to stand between Miri and Cheever. Smiling hugely, Villy danced forward with a bouquet of dried leaves tied with bright ribbons and presented it with a bow.

  Pat Rin inclined his head, received the offering, and stood while the cheering went on, his eye inexorably drawn to the place where his mother stood, silent and bland-faced.

  She met his eyes, her own as hard as stones—and turned her face away.

  Pat Rin took a breath, sighed it out, and looked up with a smile as his lady came to his side.

  “Shall we go home, love?” she asked, slipping her arm through his.

  He looked into her face, and then around the room, heard the drummer begin his count—and looked back to her.

  “I believe,” he said, smiling, “that I would like to dance with my lifemate. There are still some hours until dawn.”

  The Beggar King

  The front office of Triplanetary Freight Forwarding was empty, which he’d expected, considering. He hadn’t called ahead, and they’d only known he was on his way, not when he’d arrive. Which turned out to
be just as well, because he hadn’t done all that good a job coordinating his arrival with local downtime; the cabbie who’d brought him from the shipyard had spent no energy at all hiding his surprise that any Terran would wander here by himself at this sunless time.

  The files . . . the front-office files were in order, up-to-date, and accessible to his code, which—given one thing and another—he hadn’t expected. The boss’ office, what he supposed he’d be calling his office for as long as might be, was locked, which didn’t mean anything except that staff was conscientious.

  He used the key he’d been given and stood to one side, shoulder against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, while the door slid open and the lights came up in the room beyond.

  Since there weren’t any immediate hostilities initiated, he eased ’round the wall, hands still in his pockets, and stood just beyond the threshold, taking a long careful look at everything there was to see.

  The office was pretty much like he remembered it from his last visit, excusing the lack of clutter obscuring the expensive red wood of the desk, and the sharp, infuriating presence of Lela Toonapple behind it.

  “Well, now,” he said conversationally, tarrying yet by the door. “Already you’ve outlasted Replacement Number Three. That ought to ease you.”

  In fact, it didn’t ease him in the least, nor was he a man who usually talked to himself, despite that being a common trait of courier pilots. Replacement Number One had apparently bought his ticket out by congratulating himself aloud upon entering this very office. The sound waves had triggered a razorfall rigged into the ceiling and, hey, presto! Replacement Number One was freshly bleeding meat. He fancied he could see a stain of dried blood, dull against the gleaming crimson wood. Fancy only, he assured himself; staff here were efficient, having been trained by Herself, who would never have tolerated bad housekeeping.