A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “Pirro Velesz.” Her voice was deep, not ungentle; I heard it in my heart.

  He licked his lips. “Mercy, Lady.”

  “Return what you have stolen.”

  “Lady, I cannot.”

  The smooth brow creased; then those eyes moved again, pinning Cly Nelbern.

  “Return what you have stolen.”

  The older woman smiled, and bowed a trifle, one hand over her heart. “Why certainly, child,” she said agreeably, and reached into her sleeve.

  Lil cried out—a single wild shriek of protest. The man flung out a hand, too late, to stop the throw. I jumped half-forward, not sure if my mark was Lil or Nelbern, and saw the knife arc silver-bright, straight for Moonhawk’s breast.

  It fell, as had the glass; there was a clatter of shards where it struck. Cly Nelbern was already moving, the shine of another blade in her hand, swinging for an undercut that would take the girl out as Nelbern charged on—

  “STOP!”

  The world rocked and the stars shook in their places. I froze where I was, unable to do otherwise, my muscles commanded by Her will, not mine. I saw Cly Nelbern fall, and Lil. I saw Pirro frozen upright like myself, and heard the silence; wondered if everyone in the bar were like froze . . .

  Moonhawk lifted a hand, bangles tinkling like carnival, and pointed a slender finger at Pirro.

  “Return what you have stolen.”

  He moved, wooden-like, and went to his knees at Nelbern’s side. He pulled the envelope from her belt, but tarried, his fingers straying to her wrist. Slowly, he stood and bowed to the girl.

  “Lady, this woman is dead.”

  The power shimmered, and I saw the girl through the Goddess; frightened by what she had done, and saddened. She bent her head and when she raised it again, the girl was gone.

  Pirro bowed, offered the envelope with its strip of film.

  She took it and slipped it away, her eyes, black and brilliant, boring into his. In a moment, she had moved, turning like attention to me, so that I felt Her hovering over my soul; felt Her touch on my heart; felt, at last, the loosening of Her will and blurted out: “My sister is dead!”

  The black eyes seared into me. “Your sister is alive, Fiona Betany. Give thanks to the Goddess and honor your gifts. All of them.”

  She went to Lil then, and spoke two words which my ears somehow refused to hear. Then she reached down Her own hand to help my sister rise, and stepped back to survey the three of us.

  “You will return to your ship and you will leave this world. You are forbidden to return, on pain of punishment from the Circle.”

  She motioned, drawing burning signs within the air. “Go now! Be prosperous and true.” A tip of a hand toward what had been Cly Nelbern. “Leave that one here.”

  She paused, looking at us with those eyes, that saw us and saw through us and forgave everything they saw.

  “Goddess bless,” she said. “Now run!”

  It might have been that easy, had the others not come just then: Temple robes of starry blue, cowls half-hiding faces that woke the echo of “Recant!” within me. There were three, or five, or eight of them. Their magics so shimmered air and truth that I could not count the number.

  “HOLD!” demanded one of the group, and, perforce, we did.

  One witch pointed at me; I heard the word “Talent!” and nothing else until a second witch pointed at Lil, and me, and Pirro and waved us all into a circle with the word “Conspiracy” binding us together like rope.

  A third snatched open the envelope that Moonhawk had meekly given her and let out a smoking curse. “They would have stolen the secret of the catalyst molecule!”

  There was charged silence, as if a great secret had been revealed, and the oldest among them laughed, all brittle.

  “So, someone seeks to manufacture witches. Little enough success would have attended them! The Temple way is best. As all know—and believe.”

  She glanced about and took a brisker tone. “The wrong is that they dared to steal from us—the Temple! Retribution is demanded.”

  She gestured at us, and there was certainty in my heart: Ship and blood—and a good man, too . . . doomed.

  The shortest witch raised a hand, began to trace a sign—and stopped because Moonhawk was abruptly there, meek no longer, slashing across the other’s sorcery with a jangle of bracelets.

  “Let be!” she snapped. “Moonhawk has looked and Moonhawk has forgiven. This was a dream-matter! Their way is clear, guaranteed by the Goddess!”

  The shorter witch gaped, hand suspended in mid-sign. “Moonhawk has forgiven! Heresy, Maiden. By what right—”

  The argument raged, words unsayable were said and then sign against sign was raised and the witches contended there—

  But I found my limbs were my own again and I grabbed Lil’s arm with one hand and Pirro’s with the other and we took Moonhawk’s last advice—we ran, and none chased after.

  JUST AS WELL THAT Moonhawk banned us from her world, for Mona Luki’s lift-off and out-travel that day is now legend among traders and Port Masters (who all too often add an extra watch-minder to our bill), and most likely we’d be shot down on approach for traffic violations alone. But Moonhawk had told us to run!

  And we did what she told us—all of what she told us; and we’re as prosperous as a three-crew ship can be.

  Pirro calms Lil as none since Mam did; she has found the best truth possible. I have found Pirro practical, a man of his word, always.

  We share shifts or switch about to cover the boards. It works well, two sisters and their husband—not an odd arrangement, among small traders. Two babies on the way, which will fill the ship nicely and give us all too much to do.

  I take the Dreaming seriously now, which accounts for some of our luck in trade—and in other things.

  Now and again over the months I dreamt of her—Moonhawk. Not happy dreams. A burning. A hacking away of her long black hair. A mort of hard times among strangers, too much work, not enough food—things I remember all too well myself, so could be those dreams weren’t true. Sometimes I’d wake and find myself with my arms pushed tight against the cabin’s wall as if I’d tried to push those hard times away . . .

  Just lately, though, I dreamed her again, after a long time of no dreams at all. It woke me and I lay there, listening to Pirro breathe and considering what I’d seen: Moonhawk, short hair all curly, dressed in prosperous trader clothes, bending to embrace a fair-haired boy while a tall man looked on, smiling.

  The dream had felt true, I thought, and turned over to nudge Pirro awake and tell him.

  He smiled sleepily and hugged me, the motion of his hands a comfort.

  “Will our daughter be a Dream-Witch, too?” he asked and I had no quick answer, for of our daughter the dreams are just beginning.

  —Standard Year 1375

  Phoenix

  CYRA HURRIED THROUGH the bustle of the pre-dawn, head down, and face hidden.

  She traveled early, when the friendly shadows helped hide her deformity, allowing her to negotiate the eight chancy blocks from the anonymous apartments she kept in a nondescript building—where the floor numbering was in fresher paint in Terran numerals than in the older Liaden—to the streets she depended upon for her living.

  Once on those streets no one remarked her, and few noticed her passing or her business, except those who had need to buy or sell this or that bauble of stone or made-stone or metal. The half-light suited her purpose, and even so she sometimes found herself automatically facing away from the odd passerby of Liaden gait and stature who would consider her worthless, or less.

  On some worlds, Cyra would have been valued for her intelligence and her skills. On others, her demeanor and comeliness would surely have been remarked.

  On others—but none of that mattered, for here on Liad she was marked for life by the knife of her Delm, and guaranteed a painful existence without the support of clan or kin for at least the remaining ten years of the dozen she’d been bann
ed from clanhouse and the comforts of full-named society.

  At one time, of course, she’d been Cyra chel’Vona Clan Nosko. Now, on the streets where she was seen most, she was “that Cyra,” if she was anything at all.

  The marks high on her cheeks were distinctive, but hardly so disfiguring or repulsive in themselves to have people of good standing turn their heads or their backs on her until she passed. Yet, those of breeding did . . ..

  This was scarcely a problem any longer, for she had long ago moved the shambles of her business from the streets of North Solcintra, where she had served the Fifty, to the netherworlds of Low Port, where her clientele were most frequently off-worlders, the clanless, outlaws, and the desperate.

  Her own fortunes had fallen so far that she opened and closed her small shop by herself, working daily from east-glow to mid-day, and then again from the third hour until whatever time whimsey-driven traffic in the night faltered. Occasionally even these hours were insufficient to feed her, and she would work in the back-house at Ortega’s—cleaning dishes, turning sheets, cooking, pushing unruly drunks out the back door—where her face would not be remarked—and thereby eating and sometimes earning an extra bit or two.

  That was the final indignity. Very often her purse was so shrunken that she measured her worth not in cantra or twelfths but in bits—Terran bits!—and was pleased to have them. For that matter, being employed by a pure-blood Terran was, by itself, enough to turn any of the polite society from her face, no matter that the Terran was a legal landholder.

  Things had been somewhat better of late; the new run of building on the east side of the port gave many of her regulars a chance at day labor and those of sentimental bent often returned in hope for the items they’d sold last week, or even last year.

  This morning she was tired, having spent much of the evening at Ortega’s, filling in for a cook gone missing. Shrugging her way into the store after touching the antiquated keypads she caught a glimpse of someone standing huddled against the corner of the used clothing store.

  Closing the door behind her, leaving behind the sound of the morning shuttles lifting under the clouds, and the jitneys in the streets, she settled into the quiet of the thick-walled old building, checking the time to see that she was early enough to set tea to boil, and to warm and wolf the leftover rolls she carried from last night’s work. She started those tasks, glancing through the scratched flex-glass of the door as she moved the few semi-valuable pieces from their hiding places to the case, and uncovered the special twirling display that held her choice Festival masks behind a clear plastic shield.

  Cyra admired the green feathered mask as it twirled by, recalled the evening her aunt had brought her the ancient box and said, “This green does not become me, and I doubt I’ll go again to Festival. This was my aunt’s, after all, and is much out of style—but if you wish it, it is yours.”

  And so she’d worn it to her first Festival, finding delight in the games of walking and eyeing, the while looking for people she might know and seeking one who might not know her . . ..

  Later, she’d been doubly glad of that Festival, for the marriage her uncle found for her was without joy or success, which had scandalized him despite the medic’s assurance that she was healthy—and quashing her chance at full time study at the Art Institute.

  Now, of course, she was denied the Festival at all.

  She took her hand from beneath the plastic shield, where it had strayed, unbidden, and returned to routine, eyes drawn to the sudden flash of color outside the window, as the light began to rise with real daybreak.

  He—at the distance the wildy abundant Terran beard was about all she could be sure of, aside from the bright blue skullcap he wore to hide his hair—he was dressed in what may have once been fine clothes, but which looked somewhat worse than they ought. She doubted he could see her, but his face and eyes seemed to spend about half their time watching her shop door and the other half watching chel’Venga’s Pawnshop.

  She sighed gently. The ones who had not the good sense to wait until the store was respectably open were the ones who were selling something. She wasn’t sure which sort was worse—the ones who needed something they wouldn’t be able to afford or the ones who couldn’t afford to sell what they had to offer for a price she was able to give. At least he’d be out soon, no doubt, and she’d be able to keep the fantasy she held to heart from being overly tarnished yet again, the fantasy that Port Gem Exchange was yet a jewelry store and not yet a pawnshop in truth.

  The clock stared back at her. Once upon a time she had slept until mid-day when she wished. Now she used each hour as if there was not a moment to waste. And for what this early morning? So that she might eat without being observed, and without companions. No need to rush—chel’Venga’s Pawnshop rarely opened on time.

  THE TERRAN STOOD at his corner, left hand in pocket, watching across the way as the increasing jitney traffic blocked his view from time to time, his beard waving in the wind. He’d seen her work the door and had straightened; and was there when she went back inside to get the rope-web doormat that welcomed her visitors. The pawnshop had no such amenities as rugs or mats. Perhaps it made no difference to her customers, but such were among the few luxuries she had these days.

  He was not on the corner when she straightened from placing the mat in doorway and a quick glance showed him nowhere on the street. The lights had gone on in the pawnshop. They’d likely stolen the man away. Now Cyra regretted not giving in to the impulse to beckon to him as she unlocked the door, no matter the poor manners of it. It was hard to keep good melant’i in this part of the city, after all.

  And then he was back, this time carrying a large, flat blue package of some kind, and he was hurrying, fighting the wind and the traffic, threatening at one point to run into a jitney rather than risk his burden.

  Then he was there, larger than she’d realized, his relative slenderness accentuating his height, the dense beard distorting and lengthening his already long face, and his plentiful dark brown hair, brushed straight back from the high forehead, making him seem that much taller now that he’d taken the hat respectfully off to enter her store.

  He came in quietly, with the noise of a large transport lifting from the port masking not only his sounds but those of the door until it closed, leaving his breathing—and hers—loud in the room.

  He glanced down at her, nodded Terran-style, and looked over the shop carefully. Somehow she felt he might be looking at the tops of the cases—it had been many days since she’d thought to dust them, for who ever climbs a stool to inspect them?

  He smiled at her, his light brown eyes inspecting her face so quickly that she hadn’t time to flinch at the unexpected attention; nodded again, and said in surprisingly mannered Liaden, “I regret it has taken me so long to find your operation. I suspect we are both the poorer for it. “

  At that he pulled from his pocket a large handful of glittery objects, some jeweled, some enameled or overlaid; pins, rings, earrings, necklaces . . .

  And, she suspected quickly, all of them real.

  “These are for sale,” he said, “for a reasonable return. Since I am very close to crashing I will not haggle nor argue. I will simply accept or reject your offers on each. I would hope to get more than scrap value. You are a jeweler, however, and will know what you need.”

  His hands were the competent hands of an artisan, she decided as he turned the items out on her sales cloth. Despite the items he sold, he was ringless and despite the worn look of his clothes the marks on his hands were those of someone who worked with them regularly, not one who was careless or unemployed. Indeed, there were spatters, or patterns of colors on his skin, masked somewhat by the unusual amount of hair on his wrists, on the back of his hands, even down to his knuckles. Cyra was distracted, yes, even shocked: she had never seen a man with hair so thick it looked like fur!

  “Indeed, we shall look,” she managed, fretting at herself for the incivility of staring at s
omeone’s hands.

  Quickly she sorted, finding far too many items of real interest. A dozen earrings—some of them paired and some not—all of quality. A strangely designed clasp pin, set with diamonds, starstones, and enamel work. A necklace, of platinum she thought, set with amethyst. Then the glass was in her hand, and the densitometer turned on, and the UV light, as well.

  In a twelve day she would rarely expect to see so many fine pieces, much less at once.

  “The pin,” she said finally, “is obviously custom work. I suspect it of more value to the owner or designer than to me . . .”

  “My great-uncle designed that himself,” said the man, “and he is always one for the gaudy. Set it aside and we can talk about it later. Else?”

  Cyra looked up—way up—into those brown eyes. He looked at her without sign of distress, and so she continued, oddly comforted.

  “I would offer to buy the lot if we were closer to Festival,” she admitted, “even the pin. But these are all quality items, as you do know, and they are somewhat more—extravagant, let us say—than I might usually invest in at this season.”

  “That’s not an offer,” the Terran returned, his face suddenly strained. “And I will need something for later, too.”

  “Perhaps,” she suggested, “you should choose those least dear to you and point them out to me. I will offer on them.”

  His hands carefully moved the earrings to a small pile, and the necklace, leaving the pin by itself, and retrieving deftly other pins and the two rings. He leaned his hands on the counter then, as if tired.

  “An offer,” he said, “with and without the pin. You know that it is platinum; know that it is platinum from the very Amity object—and the provenance can be proved . . .”

  Cyra grabbed up the pin, admiring its weight and the clasp design. Impulsively, she touched his hand, the one that held the other retrieved objects, and turning it over, pressed the pin into it.