by Sharon Lee
The kid heard a warning, grabbed the offerings and packed out, and Yulie’d managed to get the letter and report inside, grabbing at the door, grabbing at the table, scattering cats, scattering thought, the panic rising so bad . . .
And then he’d given it direction, and lumbered out the door, knocking shoulder on door frame and on the door, gathering speed, running across what Grampa had named “the meadow”, and heedlessly over the small bed of field beans and through the bluefruits, entirely without thought for the value, or for anything but getting away, of running, of—
He’d run so far and so fast he almost ran off the edge they called World’s End, which wasn’t the end of the world, after all, but the carved cliff a hundred times his height and more, the first place the mining company had stripped bare with the mining machines to tug out the tiny veins of timonium in their matrix of junk rock and near uranics.
Below, the suddenly tempting vista of scrag rock, rubble, sand, and several twisty, barren streams of water. The colors of the lip of land he trembled on were the scrawny green and yellow of the local ground-grass, a touch of thatch, the dark flutter of a blowing leaf. Below was shadowed rock and water the color of the cliff walls and … nothing else, a scar a century and more unhealed.
He’d stopped, sweating, barely able to catch his breath, barely thinking, but starting to think that maybe this time, this would be the time—but no, not now, he couldn’t. The nuts would need harvest, and the—and—but what would he do? Rollie’d always taken the stuff down road once Mom had gone away. Rollie’d always—
Dead. Rollie was dead. He’d took all their money and used it—used it at the whorehouse without telling him!—and now he was dead and dust!
Rage then. A black leaf spun past into the gorge, and he’d kicked a rock unsteadily at the abyss, and almost slipped in his breathless weakness, and the fear rose in him again, and now he was afraid of World’s End, and of himself.
He’d run, as best he could then, in the back of his mind recalling that kid game where they’d counted, “four thousand big steps from the stoop to the end of the world!” His run was sometimes no more than a heedless willful stumble in the right direction, gathering scratches and bruises, feeling afraid of the sky, feeling afraid of the road, feeling like he couldn’t find breath, knowing that he couldn’t find breath. He’d skinned his shins crossing the stoop, falling into the house, and barely shouldered the door shut, locking it three times behind him.
It was three days before he’d managed to get outdoors again, two of them spent huddled in the threadbare bed, staring, thinking, letting impossible things and small noises frighten him into stiff, senseless panic, closed eyes worse than open. That first night, only Nugget, the frail very skinny cat, had come to sleep with him, and then not really sleep, but sit at the bottom of the bed with big eyes, worried and unpurring. On the third day, Yulie managed to eat, and then to remember that the crops would need in, real soon.
Some days, he kept track of time, some days he didn’t. The crops and the cats and the auto-calendar helped him keep up, mostly. Almost a year to the day since Rollie was gone, and things still needed doing.
Today . . . today, he’d actually contemplated walking all the way down to the first tollgate, but then the searchers had showed up while he was in the field, and he’d fled.
Stretching, finally, letting the leaf-fall and rough, browning grass comfort him, Yulie curled his head on his arms against a wind-breaking rock.
* * *
Mr. pel’Tolian’s note, franked as it was with a pristine Korval seal, looked out of place amid the piles of local paper, envelopes, and mismatched inks. He’d moved it aside several times, knowing that it could wait, knowing that the business of Boss Conrad of Surebleak was far more pressing than the business of a Pat Rin yos’Phelium, man-about-town on the distant and increasingly inhospitable world of Liad. The note had arrived on the overnight, likely brought in by a scout ship or a Juntavas courier; possibly it had arrived via Korval’s own packet vessels. Surely it was not more than a day or two out of Solcintra Port, unlike many of the items in these piles which had taken days to travel up from the port or down Blair Road, hand to tollbooth to hand to end up here, with him, in a pile. A pile which had waited patiently while he was away to Liad, but which demanded attention now that he was returned and despite that he’d rather be walking arm-in-arm with his lady to his casino, or even just having lunch with his planning committee.
Piles—piles were his bane. Back home—on Liad—his mail came in neat bundles, a few paper newsletters and such, invitations more frequently, business items—rarely more than a piece or two—and already sorted by likely priority by the early and steadfast action of Mr. pel’Tolian himself. The mail and news came self-sorted into the proper channels and databases of his day-screen, where it could be added to his carrybook or not.
Here, there were piles. And in the piles . . .
Some were letters on paper to begin with, others were letter-size now because anything of on-world interest that needed to be shared beyond his own staff likely would need to be in paper format to facilitate that sharing. And paper format needed to be logged, signed, notated, carried, stored, lifted—and piled.
Once that happened, of course, and items were acted on, there was a multiplication rather than reduction of piles—
Pat Rin sighed. Across the room, Silk, the resident cat, stirred, and opened one eye enough to check on the boss and his work. Ensconced in a pile of paper land records from the old days of the mining company, his work was going fine, thank you.
For himself, Pat Rin stretched, pleased that there was neither pain nor ache when he did. He was aware, too, that his family included healers . . . and that a recent three-breath, closed-eye hug from Cousin Anthora, followed by a smile and a simply-said, “You’ve been taking chances, Cousin. I knew you could,” meant that she’d gathered to him healing that a month of Surebleak clinic could not.
Well, then.
Now in-hand, Mr. pel’Tolian’s note had more weight to it than he’d expected. Unsealing it, he saw that it contained not only a letter but several visiting cards. He laughed—ah yes, Shan would have no doubt much enjoyed dispensing these—after all, they still carried the soon-to-be eliminated Trealla Fantrol address.
Lord Pat Rin, the letter began without flowery preamble, this day I received in your name a visitation by the yos’Galan lifemates and Miss Anthora in the pursuit of the final removal, as we previously discussed. I have secured passage for myself as well as the entire contents of your Nasingtale Alley establishment. In keeping with our ongoing arrangements, I include Mistress Miranda in these travel plans and am assured that she will find the trip comfortable; rest assured, she will travel in my suite and will not be paraded about the ship.
Your clan rug was rightfully of special interest to your guests and my bindings on it were checked by all. Miss Anthora and Lady Mendoza also did a “security walkthrough” inasmuch as there have been several efforts by the curious to obtain a glimpse of the interior since your shot to the capital. Miss Anthora located several items long missed by Master Quin; these have been included in his desk, which is sealed for shipping. The final containers for the more precious items have also arrived. After some discussion, I have permitted Lord yos’Galan to take several cases of the finer bottles of your Lordship’s sherry and port for safekeeping in Dutiful Passage’s own wine cellar. Several bottles travel with me, and the rest will be in the general safeguarding of the Passage, which will carry nothing but Korval’s own household goods and necessities this trip.
Odd, it was though written, the words carried the weight of pel’Tolian’s voice with them. Odder, perhaps, was how welcome that voice had been when Pat Rin had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Val Con and Miri, accepting visitors the second evening after the blast. On the door were scouts as security, in the corner were scouts and pilots of Korval, all armed, all dangerous, and into this midst, unbidden, had come pel’Tolian—through the s
ecurity, through what surely was a madman’s pattern of traffic and confusion leading to Korval’s valley.
“Lord Pat Rin, Nasingtale Alley stands firmly with you.”
Of a moment, he’d nearly doubted the voice, for the irony of having his houseman declare for him and for his actions was not lost on him. Neither was the man’s rapid appraisal of the pilot’s jacket Pat Rin wore, and of the flawless faux delm’s ring he wore on the wrong finger, a ring now a fixture, against all odds. The fact that his man had come armed to this reception of allies, friends, and spies—but yes, Pat Rin had heard the tales of the dea’Gauss taking on the enemy. Why should he be surprised that the man who’d made sure young Quin ate when his father was not to home should be prepared for such duty?
His own bow had been crisp with acceptance.
“How fares the Alley, my friend?”
“As always, Lord Pat Rin—we have a quiet neighborhood. Should you require, we are ready this evening to drive you home ourselves and—”
The laughter from Miri was unexpected, but—
“All honor to you,” had come his cousin’s voice. A step and a bow had brought Val Con into the conversation. “Even such a secure place as Nasingtale Alley is at risk in these times, Mr. pel’Tolian. In addition, his delm has need of Lord Pat Rin’s expertise at immediate hand until matters settle somewhat. Be assured that we do the best we may at feeding and housing him!”
Pel’Tolian’s bow had been as precise as any could want: acknowledging a delm’s right to order things yet prepared to press for his own necessities and those of his employer. If . . .
“Surely the situation is not so dire?”
That was Miri, of course, in her best Solcintran accent. He’d discovered the delmae something of a wonder, speaking Terran like a mercenary, commanding the respect of an Yxtrang, and catching the fine points of Liaden—and able to do all with a sense of underlying good nature.
“Your employer is also our kin, and his presence is both welcome and an honor. May one inquire if you’ve ever used that?”
Miri’s point, not to the handgun sealed beneath a weather guard on pel’Tolian’s belt, but toward his offhand pocket—
His man hesitated visibly, proving he was more a houseman than a gambler, and bowed a simple yes.
“My grandfather’s,” he said. “Now mine.”
“Too large for a pocket, sir. It is a good plan, but it needs refinement. I firmly suggest you speak to the very large man over there,” here she’d pointed out the Yxtrang, “and tell him the captain sent you—see if he’s got something more portable for local carry. Else ask Pilot Cheever.”
And then there’d been more people to meet and deal with—a matter of confirming landing access on Surebleak for a retired scout and—but Pat Rin managed to convey his appreciation, and his concern, and to confirm that pel’Tolian was not interested in staying on Liad, or in leaving his service. Later, Nelirikk was pleased to give as his judgment that pel’Tolian was alert and dutiful; fully worthy of carrying a weapon in Korval’s troop.
Thus did pel’Tolian increase his worth even as his station altered—from a fribble’s houseman to majordomo of a backworld dictator’s prime establishment.
Well, yes, that was true, the boss told himself. It was only true. And, then the letter finished:
I look forward to arranging the new house to best advantage.
Vesker pel’Tolian.
Pat Rin folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.
“Changes, Silk, and soon. I’m afraid we will no longer get by with the modest guidance of Natesa and Mr. McFarland. I assure you that Mistress Miranda and pel’Tolian will not consider our current unruly arrangements sufficient, and will insist you work for your living.”
Silk opened his eyes, flicked an ear and settled in. Silk knew how to deal with changes. And he already worked for his living.
Closing his eyes again, he left the boss to his duties.
The boss, for his part, saw that the day’s green Action File was not yet delivered, although it was late in the day, and frowned. True, he’d barely returned from Solcintra, but surely procedures hadn’t slipped so far so quickly. He rang the small bell he kept on a shelf above his desk, which would summon someone, likely a recruit from Miss Audrey’s, to find Cheever McFarland or the green day-file, or perhaps both.
* * *
The surly gaze of the double star Chuck-Honey barely a lightyear away was flickerless in the breeze when he woke, more proof that the wind had turned and came now from the northwest rather than the southwest—none of the road’s smoke and smudge in the sky now, none of whatever latent heat the city and its spaceport might contribute to shimmer the sky.
This sleeping outdoors would have to stop, should have stopped now that Rollie was gone—no one to remind him of the dangers of sleeping himself to death in the cold. And it was cold . . . or at least cool, despite his shirt and jacket. He pulled himself to his feet, using the rock he’d sheltered against as leverage. He’d managed last winter though, him and the cats. He’d get through. Boss Sherton told him when she’d walked up with some butter just a a few days back that he was a good neighbor, and besides, he traded her fresh coffee, and she told him the news.
This last time, she’d tried to get him to walk to town and trade direct, but Rollie’d got caught up in all that and never come back. And him, Yulie, he’d never been down to pick up the stuff Miss Audrey had. If he’d have really needed it, he would have known Rollie’d taken it. But trading direct was supposed to be better and safer now, said Melina. There was a new boss—a Boss of Bosses! Not only was he a boss, but he had brought ships to port, which had to be good for business. This Boss Conrad was a man who was making changes.
Changes—Yulie didn’t like changes all that much. Didn’t trust changes all that much.
Frost well before dawn then, that was his prediction, and the skittering he could hear in the leaves provided more evidence of the season and the weather. The wind on his face would quiet sometime before—ah!
The flash of a meteor: a momentary scintillation fading into a green line fading into the gathered darkness, the light a comfort rather than a threat.
Rollie’d thought he spent too much time with Grandpa watching the sky, and Yulie wondered if he spent too much time now, on account of he knew the sky. Most of the changes in it were cyclical—the sky would look much the same this time next year, aside from the barely perceptible flight of the double stars. His full panic came on him easily in the open day, but not as often in the night. Under the stars, it was as if he sat more firmly in the universe, as wild as the universe was.
A flash—meteor?
No, what had caught his eye was—what? It clearly moved at an orbital speed, low to the horizon, but if he read it right, it was easily as large as the largest ship he’d ever seen orbit Surebleak, maybe larger. There was more going on in the sky; it was as if a swarm of ships had arrived nearly at once—a host of ships, orbiting almost in a stream or a ring, there were so many. He felt a flutter of energy, pushed the panic back. Boss Sherton had explained that the Boss of Bosses was busy, and that she trusted what Conrad was doing, and that there were ships. The big one that caught his eye was in a polar orbit crossing that stream; a small halo of other ships about it—it might even be one of the legendary Korval trade ships Grampa’d always talked about.
Changes!
Yulie shivered, unsure if it was the weather or the times. Grampa had taught him to be wary of change. Change had taken away his ship, and then the settlement agreement he’d made with the company had turned into a debacle as the whole organization evaporated shortly after he’d set down to take over his property, prepared to lease out . . . well, a regional depression did nothing to make that work.
Yeah, change was difficult. Certainly Rollie’d never helped, always managing to take an advantage when something new did happen, from taking the newer bed when Mom left to pulling a muscle right at the time Grampa was setting work sch
edules so it ended up Rollie on perpetual light-duty, it seemed.
Started down that thought road, Yulie rolled on, right up to Rollie helping him choose a nettle-vined hideaway for one of his few forays into hunting oversized feral Cachura pigs—apparently one of Rollie’s least successful jokes on account of Grampa finding out about it—and for that matter, for taking such an interest in his attempts to talk to the twins hanging around the small farm market near the inner tollbooth to Ira Gabriel’s blocks that Rollie’d made it a threesome, leaving Yulie out of the mix entire, claiming of course that he’d been misunderstood. And once he’d made that connection . . .
Yah, that’s how it was, often enough, Rollie doing what he wanted and when, and now this, right out of Grampa’s dreams, traders coming here, big traders. Ships coming, lots of ships. That was the change he’d been told, that the new big boss, Boss Conrad, was building the port up in part so he could bring in the trade. And Rollie, he’d missed this good thing, pushing too hard too soon. The road was open, now. Not so much of tariff at each tollbooth, not so much hassle.
Yulie shivered again and heard a distant complaint. It was likely the gray one. Some cats told time better than he did. Yes, he was late, and some people around here kept schedules, even if he didn’t.
But he should. The strangers might be back tomorrow, and besides, he needed to walk down to Melina Sherton’s and see if somebody would talk to him, assuming he could get that far. He had tubers and late greens and cabbages that needed to go to market, some way, and the folks down at Boss Sherton’s stands understood that sometimes it took him awhile to get a conversation going.
* * *
The news wasn’t good, and it didn’t come until he was at Prime. Pat Rin was unfond of the Terran habits which broke meals, though often as not here on Surebleak, necessity was necessity.
Cheever’s nod prespoke a problem, and though he needed no permission to sit at the evening’s communal table he seemed unsure . . . and then decisive, making his way directly to the boss.