A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “This man is son of a House with a long history of predation among the lesser Houses. I will not see him attack my kin. He will—”

  Oh, gods, Daav thought, suddenly seeing the destination of the farce. You fool! He leaned forward and touched Kesa lightly on the sleeve.

  “Lady, your brother is correct. You cannot stay this.”

  For a heartbeat, the brown eyes searched his face, then she stepped back, bowed fully—House Child to Honored Guest—and turned. She walked away as sedately as one with years of negotiation behind her, and the crowd parted to let her through.

  “You, sir,” Jen Dal del’Fordan cried, “will satisfy the honor of my House!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Daav said, voice stringently calm, despite the anger trembling within. “The honor of your House is intact, as you well know.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. Korval destroys clans as casually as I pluck a flower.” The last was said with a sneer and Daav caught his breath at the sheer, blinding stupidity of the man. Did he not know that even now Korval and Etgora were mending the damage given his clan? Did he not know that with Korval’s patronage and the smiles of the High Houses, Etgora would recover its loss and reap new profits before Kesa signed her first Contract lines?

  “You do your sister an injustice—you call her honor and her understanding into question before all these.”

  He threw an arm out, showing the so-quiet crowd damming the pathway. “Is this the path a brother treads, in the task of keeping his kin safely? Your understanding is at fault in this, sir. Neither Etgora nor Etgora’s children has taken lasting harm from Korval. Have done and stand away.”

  Jen Dal del’Fordan smiled. “And I say,” he returned, voice, without doubt, pitched to carry far into the gardens, “that Korval has tainted Etgora’s honor. Everyone here has heard me. I will have satisfaction, sir!”

  Fool! Daav raged, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He bowed, deliberately, in the mode of Master to Novice, taking a savage satisfaction in the gasp from the crowd.

  “Call the House’s dueling master,” he said, and his voice was not—quite—steady. “I will satisfy you.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd waver and reform with Etgora and his mother in the first rank. His mother’s face was very calm.

  THE CARD TABLES in the Sunset Glade had been hastily removed to make room for the combatants. Clan Etgora’s dueling master bowed to Daav.

  “My Lord yos’Phelium, as the one challenged, you may choose the weapons of the duel. The House can provide pistols, swords, knives, or Turing forks from its own arsenal. If you wish a weapon we do not own, the House will acquire a matched set of the weapon of your choice, within reason. If it appears, in the judgement of the Master of the Duel, that your weapon has been chosen with an eye to indefinitely postponing this duel, you will be required to choose another weapon. Is this understood, sir?”

  “It is.” Daav closed his eyes, briefly considering edges and explosives, bludgeons, the perfectly tuned gun in his sleeve, but—no. Such weapons were insufficiently potent; they limited one to the infliction of mere physical damage. He required—he would have—a fuller Balance.

  Daav opened his eyes and pointed at the gaily colored balloons, strung on their strings at the edge of the glade.

  “There is my weapon of choice, sir. If the House is able, let a dozen of those be filled with water and let both my opponent and I choose three. Can this be done?”

  The dueling master bowed. “Indeed it can. And the distance?”

  “Twelve paces, I believe,” Daav said, counting the moves. “Yes, that will do.”

  “Very well,” said the dueling master and went away to give instructions.

  The balloons arrived in very short order and were placed, carefully, on the lawn. A murmur rose up from the crowd—and an outcry from Daav’s opponent.

  “What is this? Toys? Do you consider a challenge from Etgora a matter for mockery, sir? Dueling master! Take these insults away, sir, and bring us the matched set in the mahogany case!”

  The dueling master bowed. “The rules of the duel state clearly that weapons are the choice of the challenged, sir. Lord yos’Phelium has chosen balloons filled with water, at twelve paces. He is within both his rights and the bounds of the duel.”

  “I will not—” began Jen Dal, but it was Etgora who spoke up from the sidelines.

  “Do you know, my son, I think you will? Lord yos’Phelium has made his choice. Plainly, he is a man who stands by his decisions, no matter how foolish they may appear. I would counsel you to do the same.”

  “Lord yos’Phelium,” said the Master of Duel, “choose your weapons.”

  Daav stepped forward, knelt in the grass and picked up the first balloon. It was not quite as firm as he wished and he set it aside. The second pleased him and he cradled that one in his arm. The third . . .

  “Will you hurt him?” Kesa asked from his side. He glanced at her, unsmiling.

  “I do not think these will hurt him, though that is always a danger, in a duel.”

  “But you will make him ridiculous,” said Kesa. “Jen Dal hates to be laughed at.”

  “Many people do,” Daav said, finding his third weapon in the seventh balloon. He tucked it neatly in the cradle of his left arm and rose to his feet. “Stand clear of the firing range, Lady Kesa. Of your kindness.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, throwing one of her disconcertingly direct looks at his face. Then she bowed, simply, as between equals, and walked sedately to her father’s side, in the first rank of spectators.

  Daav waited while his opponent randomly picked his weapons, then stomped to the center of the field, the balloons wriggling and threatening to leap from his ineptly crossed arms.

  The dueling master held his hands over his head.

  “The contestants will count off six paces each, turn and stand steady. First shot to the challenged. A hit is counted only on a strike to the body of one’s opponent. The affair is finished when each contestant has expended his ammunition. The win goes to the contestant who has taken the least hits, or to he who draws first blood. In case of tie, Lady yo’Lanna shall decide the victor.” He lowered his hands and stepped back.

  “Gentlemen, turn. Count off. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Turn! Lord yos’Phelium, fire at will.”

  Deftly, Daav plucked a balloon from the cradle of his arm, gauged its flow, probable spin and mass—and threw.

  The balloon elongated, caught up with itself, tumbled once and hit Jen Dal’s tunic, dead center, with a satisfying splat. Someone in the crowd laughed, and quickly stopped.

  “This is a farce!” shouted Jen Dal.

  “It is a duel,” the master returned sternly. “Attend, if you please, sir. The shot is yours.”

  Jen Dal clumsily tipped his balloons onto his off-hand, snatched one free, holding it firmly—as it happened, a bit too firmly, for the sphere exploded, showering him with water.

  Ignoring the resulting curses, the dueling master looked to Daav, who sent his next balloon high into Jen Dal’s left shoulder.

  The dueling master had scarcely given his sign before the sodden young man had snatched up his second balloon, somewhat less robustly—and hurled it in Daav’s direction.

  It was a good throw, only missing by twelve or fifteen inches.

  Daav weighed his last balloon in his hand and considered deloping.

  “A duel with toys and water,” Jen Dal del’Fordan called from his position. “Korval takes good care that it spills no blood for honor.”

  The balloon was airborne before Daav had taken conscious thought. It sped, hard and true, and struck his opponent precisely in the nose.

  Jen Dal howled, dropped his remaining balloon and bent double, both hands rising to his face. Med-techs rushed in from the sidelines and the dueling master raised his hands above his head.

  “Lord yos’Phelium has drawn first blood! The duel is done!”

  “HOWEVER DID YOU hit upon w
ater balloons?” his mother inquired some time later, in the privacy of Jelaza Kazone’s upstairs parlor.

  “Something I read of Terran custom,” Daav said hazily. “You know what scouts are, ma’am!”

  “Indeed I do,” she replied, sipping wine and looking out into the peaceful night-time garden.

  Abruptly, she turned from the window. “Daav, I am persuaded you did right to speak to the delm about your worthiness to stand Korval.”

  He froze, heart rising into his throat. She had seen! Observing the duel with Korval’s Own Eyes, she had seen his error. She understood that at the moment of decision he had not acted for the good of the clan but from his own sense of injury, exacting a Balance—a Balance brutal of a halfling’s dignity.

  Worse, he had gained an enemy of his own rank—for he had heard, later, that Jen Dal was Etgora’s heir—who hated him now, and would surely hate him when they both came delm-high. All his mother’s careful work, undone. Undone, because Daav could not put the good of all before his own bad temper.

  It must be Er Thom, now, he thought. With Er Thom as Korval, Etgora may deal without malice, saving only I’m kept sanely out of sight . . .

  Belatedly, he became aware of his mother’s eyes upon him, and bowed. “Ma’am . . ..”

  She raised her hand. “Speak not. I will tell you that the delm has reviewed her Decision, based on what she has seen of your understanding and judgment this evening. You acted as well as inexperience might, preserving both Etgora’s heir and the peace between our Houses. With age will come . . .tidier . . .solutions.” She smiled faintly.

  “You are na’delm, my son. Korval-to-be. I trust you will not feel it necessary to revisit the matter. I doubt you will find the delm so accommodating again.”

  He stared, speechless. She had seen with Delm’s Eyes, but she had not understood. Korval Herself had erred in a matter of clan. He moved his head, trying to clear his vision, which was abruptly indistinct.

  His mother moved forward, smile deepening. “Don’t look so stricken, child,” she said gently. “You’ll do very well.” She raised a hand to cup his cheek.

  “Or at least as well as any of us have.”

  Changeling

  THE FIRST THING THEY told him when he emerged from the catastrophic healing unit was that his wife had died in the accident.

  The second thing they told him was that her Clan was pursuing retribution to the fullest extent of the Code.

  They left him alone, then, the med techs, with instructions to eat and rest. The door slid closed behind them with the snap of a lock engaging.

  Out of a habit of obedience, he walked over to the table and lifted the cover from the tray. The aroma of glys-blossom tea rose to greet him and he dropped the cover, tears rising.

  He had not known his wife well, but she had been pretty and bold and full of fun—one found it inconceivable, newly healed from one’s own injuries and with the scent of her preferred blend in the air, that she was—that she was—

  Dead.

  The tears spilled over, blinding him. He raised his hands to cover his face and wept where he stood.

  His name was Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt. He was twenty-one Standard years old and the hope of all his kin.

  THEY WERE SHOPKEEPERS, Clan Obrelt. It scarcely mattered what sort of shop, as long as it wanted keeping. In the hundreds of years since the first dea’Judan took up the trade, Obrelt had kept flower shops, sweet shops, hardware shops, book shops, wine shops, green groceries, and shops too odd to mention. The shops they kept were never their own, but belonged to other, wealthier clans who lacked Obrelt’s genius for management.

  Having found a trade that suited them, Obrelt was not minded to change. They settled down to the work with a will and achieved a certain reputation. Eventually, it came to be Obrelt managers that the High Clans sought to manage the stores the High Clans owned. In the way of commerce, the price that Obrelt might ask of clans desirous of employing their shopkeepers rose. The House became—not wealthy, not in any Liaden terms—but comfortably well-off. Perhaps not nearly so well-off by the standard of the far homeworld, Liad itself; but comfortable enough by the easy measure of outworld Casia.

  A Clan of shopkeepers, they married and begat more shopkeepers, though the occasional accountant, or librarian, or Healer was born. These changelings puzzled the clan elders when they appeared, but honor and kin-duty were served and each was trained to that which he suited, to the increase and best advantage of the clan.

  Into Clan Obrelt, then, in the last relumma of the year called Mitra, a boychild was born. He was called Ren Zel, after the grandfather who had first taken employ in a shop and thus found the clan its destiny, and he was a normal enough child of the House, at first, second and third counting.

  He was quick with his numbers, which pleased Aunt Chane, and had a tidy, quiet way about him, which Uncle Arn Eld noted and approved. No relative was fond enough to proclaim him a beauty, though all allowed him to be neatly made and of good countenance. His hair and eyes were brown; his skin a rich, unblemished gold.

  As befit a House in comfortable circumstance, Obrelt was wealthy in children. Ren Zel, quiet and tidy, was invisible amid the gaggle of his cousins. His three elder sisters remembered, sometimes, to pet him, or to scold him, or to tease him. When they noticed him at all, the adults found him respectful, current in his studies, and demure—everything that one might expect and value in the child of a shopkeeper who was destined, himself, one day to keep shop.

  It was Aunt Chane who first suspected, in the relumma he turned twelve, that Ren Zel was perhaps destined to be something other than a shopkeeper. It was she who gained the delm’s permission to take him down to Pilot’s Hall in Casiaport. There, he sat with his hands demurely folded while a lady not of his clan tossed calculations at him, desiring him merely to give the answer that came into his head.

  That was a little frightening at first, for Aunt Chane had taught him to always check his numbers on the computer, no matter how certain he was, and he didn’t like to be wrong in front of a stranger and perhaps bring shame to his House. The lady’s first calculations were easy, though, and he answered nearly without thinking. The quicker he answered, the quicker the lady threw the next question, until Ren Zel was tipped forward in his chair, face animated, brown eyes blazing in a way that had nothing tidy or quiet about it. He was disappointed when the lady held up her hand to show she had no more questions to ask.

  Also that day, he played catch with a very odd ball that never quite would travel where one threw it—at least, it didn’t the first few times Ren Zel tried. On his fourth try, he suddenly understood that this was only another iteration of the calculations the lady had tossed at him, and after that the ball went where he meant it to go.

  After the ball, he was asked to answer timed questions at the computer, then he was taken back to his aunt.

  She looked down at him and there was something . . . odd about her eyes, which made him think that perhaps he should have asked the lady’s grace to check his numbers, after all.

  “Did I do well, Aunt?” he blurted, and Aunt Chane sighed.

  “Well?” she repeated, reaching to take his hand and turning toward the door. “It’s the delm who will decide that for us, youngling.”

  Obrelt Himself, informed in private of the outcome of the tests, was frankly appalled.

  “Pilot? Are they certain?”

  “Not only certain, but—enthusiastic,” Chane replied. “The Master Pilot allows me to know that our Ren Zel is more than a step out of the common way, in her experience of pilot-candidates.”

  “Pilot,” the Delm moaned and went over to the table to pour himself a second glass of wine. “Obrelt has never bred a pilot.”

  Chane pointed out, dryly, that it appeared they had, in this instance, bred what might be trained into a very fine pilot, indeed. To the eventual increase of the clan.

  That caught Obrelt’s ear, as she had known it would, and he brightened briefl
y, then moved a hand in negation. “All very well to say the eventual increase! In the near while, have you any notion how much it costs to train a pilot?”

  As it happened, Chane did, having taken care to possess herself of information she knew would lie near to Obrelt’s concern.

  “Twenty-four cantra, over the course of four years, apprentice fees for two years more, plus licensing fees.”

  Obrelt glared at her. “You say that so calmly. Tell me, Sister, shall I beggar the clan to educate one child? I allow him to be extraordinary, as he has managed to become your favorite, though we have prettier, livelier children among us.”

  “None of whom is Ren Zel,” Chane returned tartly. She sighed then and grudgingly showed her lead card. “A first class pilot may easily earn eight cantra the Standard, on contract.”

  Obrelt choked on his wine.

  “They say the boy will achieve first class?” he managed a few moments later, his voice breathless and thin.

  “They say it is not impossible for the boy to achieve first class,” she replied. “However, even a second class pilot may earn five cantra the Standard.”

  “‘May’,” repeated obrelt.

  “If he brings the clan four cantra the Standard, he will pay back his education right speedily,” Chane said. Observing that her brother wavered, she played her trump.

  “The Pilot’s Guild will loan us his first two year’s tuition and fees, interest-free, until he begins to earn wages. If he achieves first class, they will write paid to the loan.”

  Obrelt blinked. “As desirous of the child as that?”

  “He is,” Chane repeated patiently, “more than a step out of the common way. Master Pilot von’Eyr holds herself at your pleasure, should you have questions for her.”

  “Hah. So I may.” He walked over to the window and stood looking down into the modest garden, hands folded behind his back. Chane went to the table, poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it, recruiting herself to patience.