by Sharon Lee
Daav raised his hand. “She and I discussed the scheme in detail before I had her aye. Scout Academy provided a list of pilots who might be receptive to allowing a first class provisional to gain flight time as their second—a list mother studied with some interest before declaring that it would do.”
“So.” Petrella inclined her head, and glanced again to Er Thom.
“I wonder, my son, if you might not do the captain the honor of ferrying Scout Candidate yos’Phelium to the planet surface tomorrow. I would expect you to stay by him until he has satisfactorily made his contacts, attend to the few small errands you will find listed on your duty screen, and return the Captain’s Shuttle to the ship.”
Er Thom’s breath caught.
“I’m to pilot the Captain’s Shuttle alone? Mother—“
She tipped her head, and he thought he detected the beginning of a twinkle in her stern blue eyes.
“Surely that is a task well within the skill of a second class pilot?”
He smiled. “Yes, Captain. It is.”
“Good, that is settled, then.” She turned. At the door, she looked over her shoulder at them. “The hour has perhaps escaped your notice, pilots. I mention—as elder kin and as a master pilot—that flight is much more enjoyable when one is awake at the board.” She inclined her head—“Sleep well”—and was gone.
DAAV WALKED UP to the duty counter, which looked for all the worlds like any counter in any hiring hall one cared to name. Had Er Thom not read the sign as he followed Daav into this place, he would have supposed himself in an office of the Pilot’s Guild, rather than the sector headquarters of the Liaden Scouts.
The man behind the counter glanced up from his book, and registered Daav with one quick scout glance. The glance lingered a moment on Er Thom, as if the scout found the appearance into his hall of a halfling in Trader clothes somewhat puzzling.
Daav laid his license on the counter. “One seeks Scout Rod Ern pel’Arot.”
“So?” The scout appeared amused. “If one is so ill-advised as to seek Scout pel’Arot on Trilsday, then one must be prepared to seek him at the Spinning Wheel.”
Daav inclined his head. “I shall do so. May one inquire the direction of the Spinning Wheel?”
The scout’s amusement was almost palpable.
“Down on the blue median, handy to Terraport.” He moved his shoulders and picked his book up.
“I am informed,” Daav said, which his brother considered nothing more nor less than prevarication, pocketed his license and turned away, Er Thom trailing a respectful two paces behind.
Back on the walkway, Daav paused, face thoughtful. Er Thom looked up the street, down the street, but spied nothing remotely resembling either a blue median or a Terraport.
“Singularly unhelpful, that duty clerk,” he grumbled. His brother looked at him, surprise on his sharp-featured face.
“No, do you say so?” He, too, looked up and down the busy thoroughfare. “Now, I think he told us everything we needed to know, if only we apply—ah.” He moved forward, stepping off the curb, angling through traffic as if the rushing groundcars were mere figments. Er Thom gasped, then ran after, eyes on his brother’s narrow, space-leathered back.
He caught up on the far side of the street, where Daav had paused before a public display-map of Venture Port and near environs.
“Down on the blue median,” Daav murmured, “and handy to Terraport.” He frowned at the flat display, then reached out and pushed the power-up button.
The display flickered and rolled; colors flashed; flat shapes expanded into three dimensions. The bright pictographs of written Trade appeared last, putting names to this or that building or wayfare.
Daav laughed.
“Here we are,” he said, leaning forward and laying his hand wide over a block limned in electric blue. “The blue median, or I’ll eat my leathers.”
Er Thom leaned forward, squinting at the pictograph identifying a red-lined block just the north of Daav’s blue. “Terran Mercantile Association,” he read, and Daav laughed again.
“Terraport.” He turned his grin on Er Thom. “Now, what was so difficult about that?”
“He might have said ‘near the Terran Trade Hall,’” Er Thom pointed out, struggling to keep his lips straight and his face serious.
“Well,” said Daav, with a final, calculating stare at the map, “he might have done so. But then he would not have been a Scout.” He moved his shoulders, and sent a diffident black glance to Er Thom.
“You have errands to complete for Aunt Petrella, I know, and the blue median does look to be somewhat off your course. Shall we part here?”
Er Thom stared. “I am charged foremost with seeing you safely to the end of your arrangements. You heard her say it.” He paused, as another, unwelcome thought intruded. He bit his lip. “Unless you do not wish me with you . . .”
Daav blinked. “What nonsense is this? Of course I want you by me!” He leaned forward, catching Er Thom’s arm in a brother’s warm grip. “Why else did I come all the way from Liad to see you?”
“Ah.” Er Thom glanced aside, blinking, then looked back to his brother and smiled. “Why are we arguing with each other on a public street, then? Let us locate Scout pel’Arot and get you berthed.”
“Very well.” Daav glanced ’round, then pointed toward the east. “This way, I believe.”
THE SPINNING WHEEL was found to be at the end of a short side-way off the main thoroughfare, just half-a-block from the Terran Trade Hall. The Trade pictograph on the corner street sign read “Blueway Cul-de-Sac 12.” Below that, a board bearing the hand-painted Terran words “Avenue of Dreams” had been nailed to the post. Daav slipped down the slender way, Er Thom at his side.
A thick-shouldered Terran male sat on a stool beside the door to the casino, watching them with interest. He waved his hand as they approached the door.
“Hold it.”
As one, they checked, exchanging a glance. It was Daav who moved a step toward the doorman and inclined his head—proper, as it was Daav’s errand they were come upon.
“Yes?” he said.
The man frowned and jerked his thumb at the casino’s door. “This here’s a gambling hall. No kids allowed, by order of the portmaster.”
“I understand,” Daav said in his slow, careful Terran. “May one know the local definition of ‘kid’?”
“Huh.” The doorkeeper showed his teeth. It was perhaps, Er Thom thought, a smile. “A ‘kid’ is somebody who don’t hold a license or a guild-card.” The teeth showed again. “So, maybe you got a pilot’s license?”
“Indeed.” Daav went forward another step, reaching into his pocket. Er Thom moved, too, and put a hand on his brother’s arm, halting him just outside the range of the man’s Terran-long reach.
The doorkeeper saw the gesture, and laughed—a rusty sound no more cordial than his smile. “Your buddy thinks I’m a chicken-hawk.”
“But of course you are no such thing,” Daav answered calmly and held his license up for the man to see.
The hostile humor faded from the doorkeeper’s face. “First class pilot? How old are you?”
Daav lifted an eyebrow, his face set in haughty lines that reminded Er Thom forcibly of their mother. “Is my age significant? As you see, I hold a valid license. The portmaster’s word is met.”
“You got that,” the man admitted after a moment, and turned a rather more respectful gaze on Er Thom.
“OK, doll. You got a first class card, too?”
“I do not.” He showed his license, gripping it as firmly as he might with the tips of his fingers. The doorman sighed.
“Second class. How old are you?” He held up his big hand. “It don’t make no difference to whether you can go in—your friend’s got that pat. Call it curiosity. I don’t peg Liaden ages too good, but I’m damned if either one of you looks more’n twelve Standards.”
Er Thom slipped his card back into its pocket, glanced at Daav and looked b
ack to the doorman.
“I have fourteen Standard Years,” he said courteously.
“And I,” said Daav. “Good day to you.” He moved toward the door, Er Thom at his shoulder, and the doorman let them go.
Inside at last, they paused, blinking at the muddle of noise, lights and people.
The Spinning Wheel was one large, high-ceilinged room; perhaps at some former time it had been a warehouse. The games of chance were strung out across the thickly carpeted floor, each surrounded by a tangle of players in modes of dress from dock worker coveralls to full evening wear. People were also in motion, drifting between this table and that; still more were busy with the gambling machines lining the back wall.
In the very center of the room was a lighted golden wheel reaching nearly to the ceiling—the device that gave the casino its name. And the cluster of people around that table was equal, Er Thom thought, to the entire crew roster of the Dutiful Passage.
Er Thom’s heart sank. How were they to find one man—one man whom neither had seen before—in this crush? He glanced at his brother’s face and was curiously dismayed to find that even Daav looked daunted.
Er Thom bit his lip. “Perhaps there is a message board?” he suggested, almost certain that there was not. “Or a paging system?”
“Perhaps . . .” Daav murmured, almost inaudible over the din. “I wonder . . .”
“You kids looking for somebody?” The woman who asked it was Terran, tall and willowy; elegant in a red shimmersilk dress. Her hair was yellow—very nearly the same shade as Er Thom’s—her eyes a piercing dark brown.
“In fact, we are,” Daav said, making his bow as visitor to host. “We were sent here to find Rod Ern pel’Arot.”
For a moment, the woman hesitated, and Er Thom was about to despair. Abruptly, her face cleared, and she snapped her fingers.
“Is the week half-gone already?” This was apparently a rhetorical question, since she rushed on without giving either of them opportunity to answer, “The Scout, right? I didn’t see him come in, but it’s his day, and he hasn’t missed one since I’ve been hostess. He’ll be upstairs in the card rooms.” She cocked a cogent eye.
“You know what he looks like?”
Daav smiled at her. “Like a Liaden?”
The woman laughed. “Sharp, are you? Yes, like a Liaden. A brown-haired Liaden, going gray, with three fingers missing off his left hand.”
Daav bowed. “I am grateful.”
“You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully and pointed across the crowded, noisy room. “You’ll find the lift over in the far corner, there. See where there’s a break in the line of bandits?”
“Yes,” said Daav, politely, Er Thom thought, if without perfect truth.
The woman nodded. “Have a good time—and hope The Scout’s winning today.” She swept off, the red dress swishing against the carpet.
“Well,” said Daav. Er Thom turned to meet his brother’s amused eyes. “Still game for the adventure, darling?”
“How could I beg off now?” Er Thom asked. “I’m all agog to meet this Scout of yours. Especially if he’s winning.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Daav said, moving slowly out onto the main floor. “It might prove more informative to discover him at a loss.”
Frowning, Er Thom followed.
It was rather like wading through a particularly sticky river, crossing that room. Lights flashed beneath the surface of a table where the dice struck, drawing the eye. Horns blared, uncomfortably loud, announcing a winner at a second table, and claiming the attention of all within earshot. The giant golden wheel in the center of the room clack-clack-clacked as it revolved, lights flickering along its edge, the wager marks a bright smear reminiscent of the attenuating light one might glimpse in the second screen in the instant before one’s ship entered Jump.
Er Thom paused, captivated by the effect. Gradually, the great wheel slowed, its attendant noises spiraling downward into subdued clack, clack, clacks, the wager marks discernible as individual symbols once more. Released, Er Thom’s eye fell upon the throng of bettors pressed up against the wheel’s table, and caught sight of a familiar badge on the sleeve of a jacket. He followed the sleeve up and discovered the face of Mechanic First Class Bor Gen pin’Ethil, thralled with anticipation, gray eyes pinned to the progress of the wheel, which clack . . . clack . . . clack . . . CLACKed to a halt, the lights around its edges flickering like a case lot of lightning bolts.
“Yellow Eleven!” someone called out—possibly the keeper of the machine, but Er Thom was watching Mechanic pin’Ethil, and saw his face change from bespelled to horrified.
“House wins!” called the keeper, and Mechanic pin’Ethil’s shoulders sagged within his crew jacket, then firmed. Almost stealthily, he reached into his pocket.
Er Thom went a step forward—and found his arm grabbed.
“There you are!” Daav snapped, bearing him along in his wake with embarrassing ease. “Here I thought you’d been taken by child-stealers between one step and the next, when all that had happened was that you allowed yourself to be caught like a rabbit in a light by that thing!”
“I didn’t—” Er Thom began a hot denial, then swallowed it. After all, it had been the lights that had pulled him to a halt. He had only seen Mechanic pin’Ethil after.
Daav pulled him onward, past the rest of the tables and the row of mechanicals with their attendant players, straight on to the lift-bank. He punched the summons, keeping a firm grip on Er Thom’s arm.
“You may,” Er Thom said, with what dignity he could muster, “release me.”
“And have you wander off like a kitten after a butterfly and land in some sort of horrid scrape?” his brother inquired. “I think not.”
He was saved from having to answer this not altogether unjust assertion by the arrival of the lift. They stepped inside together, Daav punched the button for the next floor above and released Er Thom’s arm.
“Mind you, stay by me,” he snarled, which really was too much.
Er Thom spun to balance snap with snarl—and stopped.
Daav’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brows drawn tightly together—signs Er Thom recognized all too well. His anger melted and he touched his brother on the sleeve
“I hadn’t meant to frighten you, darling,” he said softly. “I swear I won’t stray from your right hand.”
Daav sighed and glanced away, then looked back and assayed a smile. “Very well, then.” The lift doors slid open, showing a sweetly lit room paneled and carpeted in the first style of elegance, the tables placed with an eye to discretion and art.
Most of the tables were empty. Daav squared his shoulders and left the lift, walking sturdily toward the table where three Terrans in local formal wear played piket with a grizzled man in scout leathers.
Three paces short of the table, at a position equal with the scout’s left shoulder, Daav stopped. Er Thom stood at his side, and recruited himself to wait.
They were fortunate that the round had nearly been done. When it was, the scout excused himself to his companions, pushed back his chair and stared them both up and down.
“I expect you’re the Dragon cub,” he said at last, and none too courteously.
Out of the side of his eye, Er Thom saw Daav’s face go entirely bland, in an expression at once unfamiliar and chilling, before he bowed to the scout—junior to senior—the timing coolly precise.
“Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” he said, in the High Tongue’s mode of introduction. “Do I address Scout Pilot Rod Ern pel’Arot?”
The Scout inclined his head. “You do. I hear you want a ride back home. Why choose me?”
“One’s instructor had recommended you as a pilot from whom a novice might learn much,” Daav returned, his voice colder, perhaps, than even the High Tongue required.
The Scout cocked his head in what Er Thom read as mock interest. “Now, here’s a puzzle. Who teaches you piloting? Boy.”
; Daav drew a deep breath. “I have the honor of receiving instruction from Master dea’Cort.”
Both grizzled brows lifted, and the Scout inclined his head this time with something nearer respect. “Well. And dea’Cort sends you to me.” He flicked a glance at Er Thom’s face, then looked back to Daav.
“Baggage?”
“One’s brother, sent as Captain’s escort.”
“Wants to make certain you’re in good hands?” His glance this time was longer and he spoke directly to Er Thom.
“Well, Trader? Is he in good hands?”
Er Thom frowned, then bowed briefly. “Sir. I hear that my delm has seen your name on the list provided by Master Pilot dea’Cort, which she then approved. How, then, shall your care of my brother be other than excellent?”
The Scout stared, absolutely still, then gave a shout of laughter and slapped his two-fingered hand on the card table.
“Dragons dice early, I learn! Well said.” He looked back to Daav.
“These gentles and myself have some business to conclude. I will find you in an hour at the main eatery, belowstairs. They serve a tolerable nuncheon. Tell them you’re on The Scout’s ticket.”
Daav bowed, and Er Thom did, too. “One hour, in the main restaurant,” Daav murmured, but The Scout had already turned away, and was reaching for the cards.
THEY PAUSED ON the threshold of the casino’s restaurant and embraced without speaking. Daav raised a hand as they let the hug go, and ran his fingers, feather-light, down Er Thom’s cheek.
“Keep you safe, denubia,” he said, light-voiced, as if he did not stand on the edge of parting from his brother—his second self—twice in one scant lifetime, and grinned with more courage than mischief. “Beware of idiots seeking to chain you to a dummy board.”
Er Thom smiled, matching Daav’s courage, then exceeded it, by taking one step back and raising his hand. “Keep safe, Daav,” he murmured, and spun, perhaps too quickly, on his heel and strode off, alone, across the clattering busyness of the casino.