by Lee, Sharon
"Her eyes are green, gloriously so; when she is troubled, or very deep in thought, they seem to mist over, like fog shading the ocean.
“When one comes to know her, it is obvious that she is very far from frail. She has strength of purpose enough for the captain of a starship, wit, humor—aye, and a temper. She flies like a Scout and mathematics is her first and truest language.” He raised his head, but Moonel was not looking at him. He was sketching something with a bit of chalk onto a torn sheet of dark paper.
“Naturally, Mistress dea'Lorn did not feel that she could safely entrust the details of her design to me. However, she asked me to say that she awaits your call, Master.”
Moonel did not look up from his sketching, though he was heard to vent a small chuckle.
“It is always a pleasure to speak with Eyla,” he murmured. “Will you be wanting a ring?”
“I think not. She holds two—a Jump pilot's cluster and an old silver puzzle ring. More would overpower her hands.”
“She will wear the cluster, of course,” Moonel murmured, perhaps to himself. “We may echo.” The chalk moved once more, delicately, and the Master at last looked up.
“I will undertake it,” he stated. “The jewels will be delivered to you in good time. Good-day.”
Daav came immediately to his feet and bowed, as novice-to-master.
“Good-day, Master Moonel. I thank you for your favor.”
There was, after all, no good news from Mr. dea'Gauss. Korval's counteroffer, reiterating the life-price of a pilot-scholar and a bonus, as that scholar was the author of the ven'Tura Revisions; plus the life-price of an accountant, which Mizel might put toward the adoption of an adult to replace the nadelm—Korval's counteroffer was spurned with so little discussion that it must seem that Mizel considered it an insult.
“Mizel's qe'andra is not permitted . . . discretion in the negotiation,” Mr. dea'Gauss had murmured. “I have produced another offer, along the lines which your lordship and I had discussed previously. If it is likewise rejected, then we must assume that the desired outcome is that negotiations fail and Pilot Caylon remains as a member of Mizel.”
That chilled the blood, that did. Daav sat very still until his heart resumed its normal rhythm and he felt that he might, with some care, manage a breath.
There was no law or custom that dictated that an offer of lifemating must be accepted. After all, a delm must act for the best good of the clan, and to accept an offer that would cripple the clan . . .
He closed his eyes.
He was a fool. He had depended upon Korval's melant'i to win everything; indeed, he had behaved as if everything he wished to accomplish was already so, as if the laws and custom of Liad were so many inconvenient trivialities. To have high-handedly removed Aelliana from her clanhouse, thereby making her delm his enemy . . . worse than a fool. Yet, what else could he have done? Out of the question to allow her to remain, newly Healed, and vulnerable. He might have—he supposed he might have prevailed upon the Healers to aid them, pled his case at once and—
No. She would not have accepted him; she would not—they would not—have known the extent of their bond, the depth of their love. They must have had that time with each other . . .
“Your lordship?”
He started, reminded that he was not by any means alone. Carefully, he took a breath, and opened his eyes.
“Your pardon, Mr. dea'Gauss.”
The other man took a breath at least as careful, and inclined his head. “We will prevail, your lordship.”
Of course they would. As long as Mizel preferred to play games, there existed the possibility of a win. It was, therefore, imperative that Mizel not be brought to the point of uttering the single syllable that would kill all hope, forever.
No.
“I repose every faith in you, Mr. dea'Gauss,” he murmured, which was true. He rose and bowed. “Thank you for your efforts on Korval's behalf—on my behalf and that of my pilot.”
Mr. dea'Gauss rose from behind his desk and returned the bow.
“It is my very great honor, your lordship.”
Daav shifted in his chair in one of Ongit's private inner parlors. He had chosen one of the smaller, unthemed rooms for this tête-à-tête. For the business he intended to negotiate, a thunderstorm or a waterfall would only be a distraction.
Alas, his guest was late; verging, indeed, on very late. Normally, he might not have minded, but in the extended solitude it was far too easy to wonder after Aelliana, her probable state of mind, and what, if any, damage might come to her through their continued separation. It was she, after all, who bore the weight of the gift. She—he had no idea how much she depended upon the receipt of his “signal”; if such contact nourished her in some manner that only their separation would reveal.
Based on his own experience last night, he doubted that she had slept—but there! He was forgetting where she guested. Most assuredly, the Healers would have provided comfort, to the limit of their House's considerable ability. He hoped she had not held shy of accepting such comfort, though—was it only he with whom she might share such comforts and pleasures? If Mizel withheld agreement, was Aelliana doomed yet again to an existence devoid of all joy?
He came to his feet, eyes stinging. Damn Mizel, he thought, dispassionately. Damn Liad and the ties of clan and kin.
And damn most of all this small, empty room where he had waited too long in vain for companionship of his own. He had been, he thought, in Anne's peculiar phrase, stood up.
He turned toward the door.
Which opened, admitting a slim, red-headed person, wearing a leather jacket over a dark sweater—and limping. Limping rather markedly, in fact, off of his left leg.
“Clarence!” He caught the other man's arm, offering support to the nearest chair.
“Gently done,” came the murmur, as between comrades. At least, Daav supposed that Comrade had been the intention; the mode was just slightly off. He shivered and looked to where the elder Ongit tarried yet by the door.
“Wine, if you will—the house's preferred red. Also, the plate that I had ordered may be brought now.”
The Ongit bowed and went away, soft-footed. It was the most discreet who served private parlors, which is why he had suggested meeting here, but—
“A message saying that you were wounded would have found me, you know,” he said in mild Terran.
Clarence laughed, just a bit breathless. “No, now, it was only a fortunate fall. My own fault, too, so I'm doubly dismayed.”
Daav moved forward and placed another chair across from him.
“Thank you.” The other man brought his leg up, stiffly, and settled his boot on the chair seat with a sigh. He smiled up at Daav. “It's good to see a friendly face.”
“That fall may have been less fortunate than you suppose,” Daav said, but could not bring himself to frown.
The door chimed softly, and opened to admit their server, bearing wine, glasses, and platter. He disposed them about the table, bowed, and retired, the door sealing behind him.
Daav poured, handing the first glass to Clarence. Cradling the second, he settled into his former chair.
“To fortune,” Clarence said, raising his glass with a shaky flourish.
“To the luck,” Daav agreed, holding his glass high.
They sipped—and Clarence sipped again. He sighed, shifted in the chair, and nodded.
“Now, then, what's on your worry plate this evening?”
Daav nodded at the elevated leg. “I think we may be on my topic. It comes to my attention that pilots are once again hunted in Low Port. There are attending lesser tales of cargoes going missing, ships disadvantaged, and crew bewildered. The culprit, according to my information, is the Juntavas, which has grown out of reason bold, and the lightest word from the boss' lips held as law.”
Clarence laughed and shook his head.
“Now, if that were the way of it . . . ” he murmured. He raised his free hand and rubbed hi
s eyes, tiredly.
“I'll admit it sounds like we've got the same old problem. It isn't me causing concern—which I'm bound to say and you to take with as much salt as you like. That done, I'll admit there's some of mine mixed into it. If I don't find out who—and soon—then I'm going to have to choose . . . and I'll tell you, that's a course I hate to fly. Bad for business.”
Daav sipped his wine, chose a savory, and pushed the platter closer to Clarence's hand.
“Thanks,” he said absently, helping himself to a cheese square.
“Surely,” Daav murmured, “you must have something—a hunch?”
Clarence snorted. “Oh, I had a hunch, didn't I just!” He shifted the bad leg meaningfully. “Much good it did me.”
Daav put his glass down.
“But—”
“Concealed gunman, and me not close enough to my best guess to be able to be sure. Nothing wrong with my hearing, at least—” He sent Daav a bright, unreadable look. “A fortunate fall, and no mistake.”
Daav let his breath out slowly.
“My crew lit out after, but lost them—that's been the story lately.” Clarence shook his head. “I want them off my port, mind you; they're causing no end of trouble.”
“I agree,” Daav said. “Perhaps we can pool information?”
“That's all right by me. I'll send what I have tomorrow by public courier—acceptable?”
“Perfectly acceptable,” Daav said. “Clarence—”
“It's late, you know,” the other man interrupted. “Shouldn't you be going home to your wife?”
“I haven't a wife,” Daav said, his voice much cooler than he had intended.
Clarence shot him a hard glance. “No, now, that's not the way to go about it! Get yourself home, man, and make it up.”
In spite of himself, Daav laughed. “It sounds as if you've been married.”
“Happens I was,” Clarence said, soberly. “We were too young for it, o'course. I had my second class, doing in-system work, but still, a lot of lonely nights for him and me not there. We worked at it, but then—it was a hard world, and money wasn't easy, even with both of us working like we did. The fees on a pilot's labor—” He glanced down at his glass.
Daav lifted the bottle and poured, adding some more to his own glass.
“Thank you. In any case, I'd flown my hours and was burning for first class, but we'd never afford the buy-in. Come a woman to port offering to pay it all, and hire me when I had my ticket, if I agreed to do her a favor, if you understand me.” He shook his head. “He wouldn't stand with that, not at all. It was terrible, that fight, but in the end I chose the ticket, and the doin' of that favor.” He drank, deeply.
“And that's how I come to work for Herself as a courier pilot, before she come here to be Boss before she got transferred and I did . . . ” His voice faded out and he looked down at his hand where it rested on his knee.
“And your spouse?” Daav asked, though surely it was no business of his, if Clarence kept a harem.
“Eh?” The other man looked up, eyes distant with memory. “Oh, he left me, and right he was to do it. The doin' of favors, well. Look where it's got me.” He shook his head and offered Daav a half-feral grin. “The choices we make, those're what shapes us. You go on home, now, and make it up with her.”
“In time,” Daav said softly. “Do you have someone here to escort you?”
“Several someones,” Clarence assured him. “They're outside.”
“Then the first thing I will do is see you safely into their care. After, I will indeed go home.”
“If you're of a mind to coddle, then I'm not the one to stop you,” Clarence said. He put his glass on the table and rose, gingerly, most of his weight on his uninjured leg.
Daav offered his arm. “Off we go now, two comrades, deep in our cups.”
Clarence laughed as they turned toward the door.
“Y'know, I'd rather that was the reason. Gods, I hate being stupid.”
“Stupid would have seen you dead,” Daav said, opening the door and guiding him into the hall.
“They're watching the shadow door?” he asked, meaning Ongit's discreet—and well-guarded—back exit.
“Yeah. That stupid, I'm not.”
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Contents
Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon
Chapter Thirty
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
—Terran Proverb
It was early evening when she returned to the Hall, the meeting at Scout Academy having gone longer than she had supposed it would. As had become her custom, she passed through the front parlor of the house itself, in order to collect her mail. The fact that she received mail—invitations, almost exclusively—had at first bemused her. But, after all, she had met a great many people at Lady yo'Lanna's picnic, and it was, as she had learned from Jen, the season to be giving parties.
Today, there were no invitations, but a letter.
Aelliana froze, staring down at the word “dea'Gauss” and her direction, written out with dainty precision:
Aelliana Caylon, in care of the Healers, Chonselta City
Mouth dry, heartbeat pounding in her ears, she stared down at the envelope. It was impossible to deduce whether it held good news or bad. Her hand moved, as if she would break the seal, but she clenched her fingers tight, and forced her arm to her side.
Not here. Not where her elation or her despair would discommode the work of two dozen or more.
Slipping the envelope into her sleeve, she went down the hall, meeting no one, which was perhaps a blessing, and stepped out into the garden.
She hesitated again, once she was out-of-house, but forced herself to walk on until she came to the cottage and let herself in.
There, her back against the door, she had the letter out, snapped the seal and let the envelope fall as she unfolded the single sheet.
Mr. dea'Gauss wasted few words on pleasantries. He wrote, so the lines ran, to apprise her of the state of negotiations to date. Mizel remained adamant in its demands, refusing all counteroffers tendered by Korval. They were therefore about to embark upon a new tactic, which held some increased risk. He did not wish to proceed without first soliciting her thoughts on the topic, as she was a principal in the case, and stood to lose the most, should the stratagem fail.
No, Aelliana thought, he cannot know what Daav will lose, if Mizel will not be persuaded.
She focused again on the page. In brief, Mr. dea'Gauss proposed to challenge Mizel on the harm done to the lifemate bond, harm taken directly from the actions of Mizel's former nadelm. He would intimate that perhaps a hearing before Council was in order, to determine to whom the bond belonged and what balance might be owing for its damage.
Aelliana gasped. A bold move, indeed! To shout the fact of their link, and its deformed state, to all the world—yes, small wonder that Mr. dea'Gauss begged that she contact him at any hour of the day or night, using either of the comm numbers he provided, should she have questions or concerns.
He closed kindly, naming himself her most devoted servant, and bidding her to be of good heart.
She put the letter on the desk and went into the kitchen. Deliberately, she put the kettle on, refilled the cat's water bowl and food dish, took down a mug—and froze.
The sound came again. A knock—not Jen's robust rap, but a hesitant, trembling sound scarcely audible over the roiling of the kettle.
Some instinct guided her to the other door, that gave on to the shaded, unbusy street. She opened it, looking out and then down, to the hedge and the gate, and the thin hand on the latch—
“Sinit!”
Tea, the tinned cookies from the very top cabinet, cheese and rye crackers made a very worthy guest tray, Aelliana thought—and a welcome one, too, judging by Sinit's attentions.
“More tea?” Aelliana murmured.
“If you please,” Sinit said, indistinctly. She swallowed. “These cookies are very good, Aelliana, you should
try one!”
“I've only just had lunch,” Aelliana murmured, which was true. Also, she had found of late that sweet things did not please her, which she did not say. Merely, she took a bit of cheese onto a cracker and nibbled it while Sinit disposed of four more cookies.
At last, her sister sighed, and leaned back into the sofa cushions, her teacup gripped tightly in both hands, as if she feared it being snatched away from her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You are very welcome. I'm glad I was at home when you came. Your timing was fortunate; I'd just gotten in from a meeting in Solcintra.”
“To visit . . . your ship?” Sinit asked, with what Aelliana supposed was meant for delicacy.
She smiled. “Indeed, no. My ship is berthed at Chonselta Port; I flew it to Solcintra and met with Verisa pel'Quinot, at the Scout Academy. From today's discussions it seems fairly certain that I will be teaching Math for Survival, and an advanced course in general mathematics. The contract must be drawn and reviewed, of course, but—”
“Scout Academy?” Sinit interrupted. “But . . . you'll still be teaching at—at your usual—”
“I resigned my position at Chonselta Tech,” Aelliana said gently. “I had determined to set up as a courier service, you see, and the demands of that employment are incompatible with the academic calendar. Scout Academy proposes an intensive course of study that will occupy me and my students fully for a relumma, thus leaving three in which to fly.” She sipped her tea, considering Sinit's face.
“What news from home?” Aelliana asked, when it seemed that the silence had stretched too long.
Sinit glanced down into her cup. “Voni's married again,” she said slowly, “so it's only me and Mother in-House. She keeps to her office, though I see her sometimes at meals. My tutor was dismissed; I've signed in with the Virtual Classroom—accounting courses, mostly, and comparative cultures. I—Oh! What a beautiful cat!”