A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  A servant, bland-faced, admitted them to the house, and waved them to a small room to the right of the entranceway.

  “You may open your envelopes and don your accessories in this chamber,” he said. “After you have appropriately adorned yourselves, you may find the rest of the guests in the larger room. Buffets will be laid in the private parlors at mid-revel.”

  It was at this point that Betea sen’Equa herself appeared, slightly breathless, as if she had run down from her office the moment the monitor showed his arrival. Immediately, was Dela bel’Urik’s costume discovered to be mere commonplace, quite cast into the shade by Betea’s choice of flame-red shirt, cut low across her breasts, form-fitting leather trousers, and soft-soled leather houseboots.

  Nor was the young bel’Urik’s address sufficient to assure her place at Pat Rin’s side. Betea swept forward, using her height much as he sometimes used his, to clear a path through a crowd and arrive at his destination unrumpled and unimpeded.

  “He has not yet arrived,” she said, leading the way into the accessory chamber. Pat Rin followed, but not without a wistful thought to the bel’Urik.

  “I have been through our records,” she said, pulling what appeared to be a small square of leather from between her breasts. “Never has the House of Chance hosted such an event. Why must it be here—”

  “—Is something that we shall perhaps discover of Hia Cyn, when we have an opportunity to speak,” Pat Rin interrupted, striving for patience. He was here, he reminded himself, as an instrument of Balance. His personal pets and peeves had no brief here. Looking down, he broke the seal on his Express packet, and, wonderingly, pulled out a folded bit of leather, much like the one Betea had . . .

  The leather unfolded, revealing its form: A half-mask in supple black leather, with ribands of the same color.

  Betea’s mask was flame-red. As he watched, she tied it into place and let the ribands fall over one shoulder, the tasseled ends kissing the swell of her breast.

  Pat Rin’s uncle, Daav yos’Phelium—Val Con’s very father—had once told Pat Rin a story about a world where all went masked and revealed themselves only to their most intimate kin. The story had turned upon a man with whom Uncle Daav had sworn to be acquainted, who had one day formed a desire to go about his daily business unmasked, and the unlooked-for and increasingly distressful situations that arose from taking that single, seemingly correct, decision.

  The story had a lesson at its heart, of course—a scout lesson, with which one’s mother most emphatically disagreed. The lesson was that custom was arbitrary and oft-times nonsensical, and that the superior person was one who was not shackled by the custom of his homeworld, but moved freely from one set of traditions to another, without offense to any.

  To wear a mask on Liad was, of course, to be very wicked. Masks were erotic, intoxicating and entirely outside of Code.

  “Well?” Betea sen’Equa asked, not a little snappish. “Are you going to put that on, or are you not?”

  THE HOUR WAS growing late.

  Not that the young gentleman of leisure was at all concerned for the final outcome of the evening, he only wished that Betea would approach him so that the matter could be settled, finally and for all. She oversaw for a time the room’s small spin-wheel, and joined a party at cards, making certain that the money and the drink flowed, as a proper hostess must do.

  Indeed, he would quite miss Betea, and where he would find another cat’s paw so perfectly situated, he could not predict. However, he was a young man of an optimistic cast of mind and rarely allowed the problems of tomorrow to oppress him today. He did not doubt for a moment that Betea would find herself able to accommodate the arrangements he had made for her. After all, what could it matter to a clan-less where she lived or to whom she owed duty?

  If only she would she would stop circulating and come within his orbit so the evening could go forward . . .

  IT WAS . . . disconcerting . . . to enter a room filled with people dressed with entire propriety, saving only that their features were masked. Pat Rin, master of any social situation described in the Code, felt ill-at-ease, which sensation he found unsatisfactory in the extreme.

  By contrast, Betea strolled into the room as if she had gone masked all her life, moving among people whose motives and desires were hidden from her. Which, Pat Rin thought, the echoes of Uncle Daav’s old story suddenly ringing in his ears, perhaps she had.

  He raised his head and moved into the room, ignoring, as best as he was able, the supple caress of leather against his cheeks. A masked servant offered him wine from a tray, which he accepted, and, sipping, moved even further into the room.

  Betea, he saw, was well advanced of him, her crimson shirt a beacon among the pastel evening colors of the Festival season.

  Strolling through the room, Pat Rin recovered somewhat of his equilibrium. He had a good ear for voices, and he found that he recognized the accents of more than one social acquaintance in conversation, mask to mask.

  So acclimated did he become, in fact, that when hailed by a yellow-haired lady in an emerald-green mask, he inclined his head gravely and murmured, “Good evening, Eyan. I hope I find you well?”

  The lady gave a startled laugh and moved forward to lay her hand on his arm.

  “Quick, my friend. Very quick. A word in your ear, however: We name no names here.”

  Pat Rin sipped his wine. “Whyever not?”

  “Oh, it adds to the mystery, the intrigue, the naughtiness! Is it not absurd?”

  “Perhaps. But it is possible that you will change my mind. I am not accustomed to finding you engaged in the absurd.”

  “Prettily said,” smiled the lady. “Alas, I am here at the whim of a friend, who had heard of such affairs being all the rage from her cha’leket. I must seek her soon, to find if the telling matches reality, or if we may go and find a less . . . mclant’i challenging . . . gathering.” She had recourse to her own glass, eyes quizzing him over the crystal rim.

  “But how do I find you present at such an exercise? Pay-off on a wager? Never say that you lost!”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “I find my situation similar to your own; and am here at the necessity of another.” He swept a glance across the room, looking for the crimson shirt—and failing to find it.

  “Pat Rin?” Her hand was on his sleeve once more. “What’s amiss?”

  “I—am not certain,” he replied, and turned sharply on his heel. “Perhaps nothing is amiss. Your pardon, Eyan . . .” He moved off into the crowded room, leaving her frowning behind him.

  IT HAD BEEN absurdly easy. Betea had all but literally walked into his arms, and it had been simplicity itself to guide her into the parlor where his business associate awaited them.

  “This is she?” The man behind the table asked, while Hia Cyn held Betea firmly by her arm.

  “It is,” he said, adroitly avoiding the kick she aimed at his shins.

  “And you have the right to sell her into indenture?”

  “Sir, I have,” said Hia Cyn. “There is a debt between us of long standing, which she makes not the slightest push to settle. I certainly—“

  “That,” snarled Betea, twisting against his grip, “is a lie! I owe you nothing!”

  “Yes, well . . .” Hia Cyn shifted his grip and got her arm up behind her, hand between her shoulder-blades, which quietened her quick enough. “I have the papers, sir, which you’ve seen. The Council itself acknowledges my right to redeem my money through the sale of this woman’s work for a period of seven Standard years.”

  “He’s a wizard with papers, this one!” Betea snarled. “Look twice at any signatures he shows you, lordship—Ah!”

  “Respect for your betters, Betea,” Hia Cyn said pleasantly, but the man behind the table frowned.

  “She’s worth less to me with a broken arm,” he said, sternly. “Nor do I wish to buy at hazard.”

  “Sir—”

  “You are wise,” came a cool voice from behind. “Si
r, release that woman. She is neither your chattel nor your debtor.”

  The man behind the table moved a hand, beckoning. “Who are you, sir?”

  Pat Rin yos’Phelium stepped into the room, impeccable in high-town lace; his face covered by a supple black mask; blue gem blazing in his right ear.

  “I was told we name no names here, sir,” he said calmly. “However, I have business and a name for the man who has attempted to sell you that which does not belong to him.” He turned and raised his hand, pointing.

  “Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, release that person, and prepare to answer me in a matter of Balance.”

  “Balance?” Hia Cyn’s grip loosened, from pure amaze, so Betea thought, though she was quick to take advantage of his lapse.

  “We are in the midst of social pleasure,” Hia Cyn protested. “How may Balance go forth here?”

  “Balance goes forth in the name of Fal Den ter’Antod, whom your actions slew. Do you deny that you are Hia Cyn yo’Tonin?”

  “I neither deny nor acknowledge! You, sir, are not anonymous. I know your voice. I know that ear-stone—as who does not? I’ve seen you deep in the cards—and shooting, at Teydor’s!”

  Betea, forgotten in the argument, moved swiftly to the side, raised her hand and pulled the bright ribands.

  “What!” Hia Cyn raised his hand too late. The mask had slipped, fallen, and was held useless in his left hand. He stood revealed, his face seeming curiously naked, the skin slightly damp where the leather had cuddled his cheeks.

  Pat Rin raised a hand, showing the battered debt-book, Imtal’s sigil to the fore.

  “I have a book from the hand of a dead man, Hia Cyn yo’Tonin. Balance goes forth, here and now. What Balance is just, for the loss of a life?”

  “I repudiate this. I will not accept Balance from a masked robber.”

  “But do you know,” said a feminine voice from the door, “I think you will?” A smallish lady with gray hair, and wearing a mauve mask stepped into the room, closely followed by Eyan yo’Lanna’s emerald. The mauve mask inclined her head to Pat Rin.

  “I have only this afternoon had a message from dea’Gauss, sir. I believe I am in your debt for the very welcome information he imparted.” She raised a hand. “Your duty takes precedence over my own. Pray continue. I believe we may be in a situation where witnesses may be . . . appropriate.”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “Ma’am.” He looked again to Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, and it was anger he felt. Anger, that this man lived where Fal Den ter’Antod—twelve dozen times more worthy!—had died. Died for the cause of this man’s greed. And he was to Balance this wrong? There was no Balance fitting. Even death . . .

  The man behind the table cleared his throat.

  “I do not wish to trespass into a private affair,” he said calmly. “However, I think it relevant to point out to those concerned that I came here to buy seven years’ of hard labor in my company’s mine. It matters not at all to me whose labor I buy, so long as the contract is valid.”

  Pat Rin turned and looked at the man behind the table.

  “Seven?”

  The man inclined his head. “The contract can, of course, be renewed, at seller’s option. I am limited to the purchase of seven-year blocks.”

  “I see.” Pat Rin held looked again at Hia Cyn yo’Tonin, pale and sweating. “Let us say seven years initially, renewal to depend upon Fal Den ter’Antod’s delm.”

  “The Council!” yelped Hia Cyn.

  “I don’t think that the Council will find it difficult to name you beholden,” the lady in the mauve mask said. “And if Imtal does not impose additional terms of service, you may warm yourself by the certainty that you will have pel’Varn to reckon with on the day your indenture is done.”

  It was too much. Hia Cyn spun, knocking Eyan aside, and vaulted into the main room, Betea in hot pursuit.

  “Card-sharp!” she cried. “Stop him!”

  The pleasure-seekers—gamesters and High Houselings alike—turned to stare at the one so hideously accused; several young gentlemen were seen to cast down their dice or their cards and move in pursuit.

  Hia Cyn slammed to a halt, staring at the room full of masks, the avid eyes focused on him. He glanced down at his left hand, fingers still uselessly clutching his mask. Revealed, he thought. Revealed and ruined.

  “Do not run from the lordship’s Balance, Hia Cyn,” Betea’s voice was quite near. He jerked his head up and stared at her. “It was wrong, what we did. And now a man has died of it.”

  “A fool has died of it,” he snarled, snatching his hidden pistol free. “And not the only one.”

  He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger.

  Betea fell; someone in the crowd of pleasure-seekers screamed, someone else shouted. And Hia Cyn turned, seeking the way out—

  And found instead a tall man dressed all in evening lace and jewels, the blue stone in his ear blazing. He was showing empty hands, which marked him a third fool.

  “Put the gun aside,” Pat Rin said, pitching his voice for gentleness. “Put the gun aside and stand away, Hia Cyn. You hold no winning cards here.”

  “No?” The gun came around, the eyes wild and the face aflame with some fever of madness.

  There was no time to warn the crowd, no time to think. Pat Rin brought his right hand down, felt the little gun slide into his palm. The target . . .

  Hia Cyn fired as he fell; the pellet from Pat Rin’s palm gun had already shattered his heart.

  There was silence among the pleasure-seekers, and Pat Rin, shaking, slipped his weapon away. Several of the young gentlemen were bending over what was left of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin. He went to kneel beside Betea sen’Equa, discovering a heartbeat, and a wound to the upper arm. She opened her eyes as he bent over her.

  “Lord,” she said breathily to Pat Rin as he stooped near her, “the masks!”

  “Yes.”

  It was absurdly difficult to untie the ribands that held his own mask in place. If only his fingers wouldn’t shake so . . .

  Finally, the thing was done and he stood, raising his hand for silence against the sudden storm of chatter: “yos’Phelium!” “Suicide to draw against a yos’Phelium!” “He must have been in his cups!” “Card-sharp! The hostess herself accused him!”

  Someone—he thought it was Dela bel’Urik—called, stridently, for silence.

  It fell, and Pat Rin cleared his throat.

  “If someone would be so good as to call the Port Proctors? Also, it would be well to remove your masks.”

  These things were done, and when the Proctors did arrive, in goodly time, since they also knew the street, the only mask in the room was held in the death grip of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin.

  IMTAL HERSELF RECEIVED the debt-book from his hands, riffled the pages, and read the four accountings, lingering over the fourth. She lay the book aside.

  “Our House is honored,” she said, bowing.

  “It was an honor to serve,” Pat Rin replied, properly, and bowed even lower.

  “Hah.” She considered him out of tired brown eyes. “And what else do you bring me, child of Korval?”

  Pat Rin moved his hand and Betea came forward, bowing as he had shown her.

  “This is Betea sen’Equa; her name appears in the last entry in the book. Alas, Fal Den wrote neither a plus nor minus beside her name, nor any other elaboration; and I am unable to precisely reconstruct his will regarding her.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “I have read the last entry, and found it unilluminating. ‘In consideration of the melant’i of all involved, all debts in this pairing must be considered satisfied, pending the delm’s acceptance of the matter’.”

  Pat Rin bowed acknowledgment. “Just so. Betea took part in the scheme which caused Fal Den’s death; it was something in which I feel she was also a victim. Your kinsman could not himself squarely place the debt, nor can I. The best Balance I may craft is to suggest that you speak with this person, candidly and at length, and that a new Balance be
struck if need be, to Balance the loss of Fal Den’s worth.” He paused, then added, with utmost delicacy, “I also suggest that you consult most closely with your business advisors about the matters this woman may reveal before setting that worth. Had it not been for the unfortunate public suicide of Hia Cyn . . .”

  “yo’Tonin. I have heard the news of that, and I have—as you may understand—heard other news of that. I would not have had such a necessity forced opon you.”

  “The necessity was mine, Imtal. I could hardly have refused to serve Fan Del’s wishes.”

  There was a short silence, then an inclination of the head. “As you say. I assume that this is the young person who was wounded in the service our House?”

  “Imtal, it is.”

  “Hah.” The brown eyes now frankly swept Betea. “My father knew your grandmother. Well.”

  Betea managed a strong voice: “My grandmother knew many people. Well.”

  It was the correct response. Imtal smiled. “Assuredly, we shall need to talk—candidly and at length.”

  To Pat Rin she inclined her head. “My thanks for your service to our House.”

  That was a dismissal. Pat Rin bowed. “My thanks for the forbearance of the House. I grieve for your loss, as well as my own.”

  That said, and most properly, he allowed himself to be ushered from the room.

  Balance of Trade

  Gobelyn’s Market

  Standard Year 1118

  “IF YOU TRADE WITH Liadens, trade careful, and for the gods’ love don’t come sideways of honor.”

  This set of notes was old: recorded by Great-Grand-Captain Larance Gobelyn more than forty Standard years ago, dubbed to ship’s library twenty Standards later from the original deteriorating tape. Jethri fiddled with the feed on the audio board, but only succeeded in lowering the old man’s voice. Sighing, he upped the gain again, squinting in protest of the scratchy, uneven sound.