A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “Now, Brother, have pity! Don’t make her any worse.”

  He rounded his eyes, face etched in surprise. “Why, Lady Nova! As if my aunt were ever other than perfectly delightful!”

  “Val Con—”

  “The Right Noble Lady Kareen yos’Phelium,” announced the housebot from the doorway.

  “Good morning, Aunt,” said Val Con, the Low Tongue all good cheer. “Will you take breakfast with us?’

  “Thank you,” said the Right Noble, “but no.” The bell tones of the High Tongue were gelid. “And you, my Lord, might best wish to speak with me in the study. What I have to say is scarcely fit for a breakfast-table conversation.”

  “I’m a-tremble,” said her nephew. “But I fear you will have a small wait, Aunt, if you must have the study. I am exceedingly hungry and feel I should finish my meal before embarking upon an exhaustive interview.” He picked up his tongs to readdress breakfast.

  There was a pause, growing painfully longer. A glance from beneath sheltering lashes showed Nova that Lady Kareen’s face was rigid with anger. Val Con was proceeding with his meal.

  “Very well,” said Lady Kareen presently. “If you will have it so.” She moved to the nearest chair and stood, eyes on her nephew’s bent head.

  Horrified, Nova saw Val Con glance up, frown and raise his hand to the hovering robot.

  “Jeeves, pray hold my aunt’s chair for her.”

  “Certainly, Captain.” The ’bot glided forward and slid the chair smoothly from its place.

  “Your Ladyship.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before she sat. Jeeves retired to a corner.

  Val Con smiled. “Now then—ah, but first: are you certain you won’t take something, Aunt? Tea? Morning-wine?”

  “Nothing, I thank you.” She glared at him. “Must you speak in that manner?”

  He blinked. “In what—oh, in the Low Tongue! I do beg pardon, ma’am. I was speaking with my sister just now and it quite slipped my mind that I must use the High Tongue at this present, in deference to company.”

  Nova bit her lip.

  “Of yesterday’s fiasco,” the old lady said after a moment, “there is nothing to say. That you failed to bring your cousin away from the racing-track before he had made a fool of himself and his clan does not surprise. He is as tenacious as he is misguided. It grieves me that his hold over you, the heir and hope of Korval, is such that you were persuaded to lend your countenance to the spectacle. It is to be hoped that you will soon see the unsavory influence Shan yos’Galan exercises over you and will distance yourself from him.” She paused to glare at both of them. “On that head, no more.”

  “Ah.” Val Con rose and refilled his cup. When he sat again, both brows were well up.

  “You have something to say on another head?”

  The Right Noble pressed her lips together. “It is perhaps not a subject you would care to discuss in the presence of your cousin.”

  “You intrigue me.” He glanced at Nova, green eyes dancing.

  He turned back to his aunt. “Speak on; we listen eagerly.”

  “Very well,” said the old lady again, eyeing Nova dubiously, and drew herself taut. “It has come to my ears that my nephew, Val Con yos’Phelium, has been seen in a common tavern near the docks in Chonselta City. Has, indeed, been seen walking late and early about town wearing spaceleathers . . .” Lady Kareen faltered under her nephew’s steady gaze and had recourse to her kerchief.

  Nova sipped tea.

  “Spaceleathers,” Val Con repeated gently. “And what should one wear, I wonder, when visiting common taverns?”

  His aunt bristled. “Spaceleather is very well for working in space. No doubt it serves you admirably in your scouting duties. But when upon Liad, one must dress according to one’s station. In the evening, one must always wear a cloak.” She took a deep breath. “That the delm-to-be should be so ill-mannered—”

  But Val Con wasn’t listening.

  “Cloak,” he murmured. “Of course a cloak . . .” He came to his feet, made his bow and was all but running past Nova’s chair, his fingers barely brushing her cheek.

  “Aunt, I thank you—your instruction is superlative. Pray forgive my hastiness—Jeeves!” he cried as he passed from the room. “Bring your calculator! I must have a new cloak!”

  The robot charged after in a thunder of wheels, orange head-ball flaring. “My calculator is ever at hand, Captain.”

  Nova sat staring at the empty doorway. “A cloak? Oh, no . . .”

  “But why not?” asked Lady Kareen, obviously gratified that her words had at last produced an effect. “What harm can it do him to have a new cloak?” She leaned forward to pat Nova’s hand. “Pray tell him to consider it my gift to him, Cousin; he must have the cloakmaker send the receipt to me.” She smiled. . . . “After all, an interest in one’s appearance is a beginning! I’ll deal with the racing later.”

  SHAN SLAMMED THE skimmer’s bonnet, frowning. He’d gotten several offers from mechanics to enhance his engines beyond match regulations. He’d told them all no—a fair race and a fair win, that was what he wanted.

  And now here was Val Con, insisting that Araceli be brought home for private testing. And if Val Con was willing to tempt fate in such ways . . .

  “Practice? Practice how?” he’d demanded when he got the younger man’s call. “We need to be on the course to practice, youngling. Practicing on flat grass isn’t going to do us any good.”

  “No, but it will. I think. Please, Brother, bring her home. If it puts you out of pocket, I’ll pay the shipping.”

  So here was Shan, cooling his heels on the stream bank, and Val Con uncharacteristically late—

  A flash of bright color caught the corner of his eye. He tracked it—and froze, staring.

  “Good evening, Brother!” called Val Con cheerfully.

  “What in moon’s honor is that?”

  “This,” announced the younger man, pulling himself stiffly erect and moving his shoulders so the orange micro-silk shimmered, “is the next fashion.”

  “I’m terrified,” Shan said, carefully circling him. “But you’re probably right. It just might be ugly enough.” He shook his head in repulsed wonder. “You look like a pumpkin.”

  “Oh, no, do you think so? The cloakmaker will be distressed; he was extremely proud of the work.” Val Con grinned. “I have a genius for design.”

  “What you have a genius for is for driving me mad! Do you mean to say you actually designed this monstrosity? Why? You hate cloaks! You’ll never wear it. Unless it’s your idea of a joke on Society? Everyone will rush out to have a cloak like Korval’s—and you’ll have a grand time laughing up your sleeve. Delightful. Except you’ll be off-world for most of the time this new fashion of yours is the rage. I’ll have to look at the stupid things every time I go out for the next—”

  Val Con was laughing.

  Shan regarded him sourly. “OK; I bit, did I? Explain. Include,” he added after a moment, “why it had to be orange.”

  “Ah, you see, orange doesn’t suit everyone. But with my lovely dark hair and pure golden skin tone . . .”

  “Stop.” Shan took a breath. “Val Con, you’re my brother and I love you. Don’t make me kill you.”

  “Orange is my aunt’s favorite color,” murmured the other. “I thought, since she so kindly bears the expense . . .”

  “I see,” Shan said. “Paid good money to hide you, has she? So it’s orange and you’ll be hidden for everyone to see. Now: Why is it at all?”

  “So that we will win the race at the Little Festival.”

  Shan blinked. “Yes? Could you be more specific, please?”

  “Certainly.” Val Con linked their arms and gently turned his brother back toward the trees. “If you will only walk with me to the skimmer and have the goodness to give me a ride . . .”

  THEIR SISTERS comfortably established in the stands, Shan and Val Con walked leisurely toward the qualifying field. To the l
eft, the jewel-colored pleasure pavilions rippled in the flower-scented breeze. To the right, Te’lesha Lake reflected the colors of the afternoon sky. Already there were people abroad with lovegarlands in their hands.

  “Well,” said Shan, “at least we’ve managed to get everyone out of Kareen’s way today. Is she checkmated, do you think, Brother? Or will she pull rank on you?”

  “She has none to pull.”

  Shan opened his mouth—closed it, as memory rose:

  The boy, Shan, entering the house by a side door and almost falling over his small cousin, Val Con, unexpectedly sitting on the cool stone floor, clutching a martyred orange cat in his arms.

  Shan sat on the floor next to the child; extended a hand and ruffled the dark hair.

  “Hello, denubia. What’re you doing here?”

  A long pause during which Val Con studied him out of solemn green eyes. Then, with the terrible succinctness of the very young: “Aunt Kareen doesn’t want me.”

  “Shan.” Val Con’s voice, here and now.

  “Yes?” But even as he asked, he saw them; the Lady leaning on the arm of her elegant escort. “Aaaah, damn. Have they seen us?”

  “Hello, kinsmen!” called Pat Rin across the Festival’s babble.

  “Why must he always remind me of that?”

  “Gently, Brother,” murmured Val Con. “Only think of the expense; weigh it against satisfaction gained . . .”

  “You make it sound so simple . . .” he began. Then Lady Kareen and her son were with them and he chopped it off to make his bow.

  Val Con also bowed, graceful and brief. “Aunt. Cousin.”

  “Nephew,” she said icily and paused to draw a deep breath. Into this slight gap—unexpectedly—stepped Pat Rin.

  “What an extraordinary cloak, young cousin. And worn at such an odd hour. Unless you wish to establish a—point—of some kind?”

  Val Con considered him, eyebrow askance. “I wish to establish a new fashion in cloaks, kinsman. What better place to introduce it than the Little Festival, where hours are for a time banished?”

  “Oh, very good!” said Pat Rin admiringly. “You have the touch of a poet, Cousin.” He gently disengaged his mother’s hand and ignored her glare as he circled Val Con thoughtfully.

  After a few circuits, he shrugged. “There is a grain of something there, I allow. It might be possible to adapt it quite successfully. What do you call it?”

  “A skimmer,” said Val Con gently.

  “Indeed? Don’t you find that perhaps a bit—vulgar?”

  “Ah, but you see, I find myself to be a vulgar person. Which I believe is the topic my aunt wishes to address. Let us allow her room, kinsman.” He turned his eyes to the outraged Lady. “Aunt? You have something to say?”

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “I will speak with you in private, sir.”

  Val Con inclined his head. “Lady, I regret. I am here. If you wish to speak—and since you came in search of me—you must perforce speak here.”

  Pat Rin’s eyes sharpened with speculation and he stepped back to his mother’s side.

  The Right Noble stared at her nephew. A moment stretched to two . . . neared three . . .

  She moved her eyes first.

  “Very well, sir. If you wish all the world to hear it . . .”

  “If your topic causes you shame, madam, pray do not speak, but wait. Call on me at home and we will discuss the matter privately.” Val Con’s voice was unremittingly gentle. Shan winced and swept a quick glance around the gathering crowd.

  Lady Kareen moistened her lips. “That Lord yos’Galan is so lost to propriety as to continue to race skimmers in the face of defeat and ridicule, I can readily believe. That you, of the line and blood of one of the oldest and most respected of the clans, should, after receiving the instruction of the eldest of your line, persist in this scandal is insupportable. Why should you race skimmers, sir? In all the generations since the clans came to Liad no one of Korval has ever raced skimmers!”

  “And before Cantra yos’Phelium and Tor An yos’Galan landed the colony ship on this world, no one of Korval had done that, either,” Val Con said. Suddenly, his eyes were sharp; his voice ice-edged.

  “Your argument, Lady, falls short.”

  The Right Noble pulled herself up. Pat Rin gasped. Shan bit his tongue.

  “As the eldest of Line yos’Phelium,” Lady Kareen stated formally, “I forbid you to race—this evening, tomorrow, or at any time in the future. Do I make myself plain, sir?”

  A pause, very brief. Then, in the highest possible dialect, that used to address strangers or those barely acknowledged as kin: “You long ago declined the right to so command.” And added, in a voice so cold Shan barely recognized it as Val Con’s, “Madam, I repeat: Your argument falls short. You are of the line by name and blood, but never by authority.”

  Incredibly, she opened her mouth to speak further—or perhaps she only gasped with shock. Whatever she intended, it was forestalled as Pat Rin stepped forward, sweeping a bow just this side of too-deep toward them both.

  “Indeed,” he murmured quickly, “we are grateful for this valuable instruction.” He backed gracefully to his mother’s side; placed her hand upon his arm.

  “A good evening to you both, kinsmen. My kindest regards to your sisters.”

  Gently, he turned the Right Noble and guided her through the scattering onlookers.

  Shan looked at his younger brother, standing stiff and hard-faced in his absurd cloak.

  “Are you Balanced now, Val Con?” he asked softly.

  Some of the stiffness fled and he turned, mouth wry.

  “I think so,” he murmured and added, “yes.”

  THE STANDS WERE packed and Nova stretched her legs carefully.

  Next to her, Anthora and her fairlove were engaged in picking out acquaintances in the crowd—against all Festival propriety, of course. Nova sighed and leaned over.

  “May I offer either of you wine?”

  “Both,” said Anthora gaily. She smiled at her companion, who was clearly besotted already. “I’ll have red, please.”

  “And I, canary, Lady. Thanking you . . .”

  Anthora gripped Nova’s hand. “Two more,” she whispered urgently. “Is it red and red? Pat Rin and Lady Kareen are here.”

  “What?” Nova turned, immediately locating the exquisite Pat Rin, painstakingly conducting his mother across the tiers.

  “Damn,” Nova muttered and Anthora laughed.

  Pat Rin’s bow, delivered moments later, was an intriguing concoction of restraint, kinship and tentative coolness.

  “Cousins,” he said formally. “A good day to you both. My honored mother wishes to view the race and wonders if she might presume to the extent of begging two seats.”

  What was this? Nova smiled graciously and inclined her head.

  “Please do sit, both. There is wine. You prefer red, I think, kinsman? Cousin?”

  This was acknowledged with cool thanks; seats were taken. Lady Kareen leaned to Nova.

  “Will you have the goodness, Cousin, to point out Korval’s craft when it appears? One wishes to keep it in one’s eye.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Nova sipped wine to cover her confusion. “You know, of course, Cousin, that there is no possibility of halting the race—or of withdrawing Korval’s entry, assuming it has qualified?”

  “Of course,” said Lady Kareen placidly. “I have seen my nephew and his brother. My error has been shown me,” her lips twitched, “with meticulous correctness. One seeks to behave with propriety.” She sipped. “What is the name of the craft, please, Cousin?”

  “Araceli. It should be quite easy to mark. My youngest brother wears his cloak.”

  “Most proper,” said Lady Kareen and turned to say a word to her son.

  VAL CON PULLED on gloves as he surveyed the competition. Each craft hovered over its assigned colored oval; from the stands it looked as if eighteen frictionless pucks sat upon eighteen glass disks.
The slightest gust of breeze could push a craft off-center, as might the careless lean of a copilot, though once underway the powerful force of the airblasts would nullify all but the strongest wind.

  The razzing from the other crews subsided into grumbling and catcalls, though Val Con had had a bad few minutes just as Araceli took its place. Tolanda’s Terran pilot gave vent to an exquisite wolfwhistle while her Liaden partner called out reprovingly.

  “Come now, Captain, you needn’t give up as easily as that! You’ve paid the entrance fee; why not try to race?”

  Kelti had taken up the assault then: “That orange could blind somebody!”

  And so on.

  Through it all Shan sat silent in the pilot’s slot; and Araceli alone of the eighteen craft stayed precisely centered above her disk of color.

  The starting cannon boomed, masking the whir and whine of the skimmers’ starting blasts. Wind whipped Val Con’s face as he leaned back into his niche, clinging to the molded handgrips. At Shan’s nod, he shifted left and Araceli veered sharply: now they were in the second row and building speed.

  Across the course, skimmers were setting up for the first sickle-shaped curve, and Araceli’s position on the outside was bad. Unexpectedly, speed helped them through the first bunch-up at the base of the turn; they slid away a half-second before the craft to their left lost control and broadsided the skimmer immediately behind.

  A short straight and then—the hill.

  Most of the field was slowing; pilots gauging the approach, waiting for the exact moment to gun the jets.

  Out on the far side, running at a completely absurd angle, Araceli charged forward, upward—halfway up, in fact—and began to rotate.

  Shan hit the jets; Araceli climbed, rotation unchecked. Val Con, ducking to give the pilot a clear view as they proceeded backwards, grinned at the confusion behind.

  Several pilots, misreading Araceli’s rotation as unwanted spin in their own craft, corrected disastrously, slipping sideways—and downward.

  Araceli gained ground, rotating gently to face forward again as the hill was crested—four places up in the running; only seven craft ahead.