A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  “Did you move anything?”

  “I took the carpet away, as she commanded,” he said. “I locked the carpet knife in a drawer.”

  The Healer inclined his head. “We will wish to see both, later.” He glanced about him and used his chin to point at the ceiling camera. “Is that live?”

  “Yes,” Pat Rin murmured. “Shall I—?”

  “We will want a copy of the recording, yes, sir,” the Healer said. “If you could have that done while we are examining your kinswoman, it would be most helpful.”

  “Certainly,” Pat Rin said, and the Healer patted his arm, as if they were kin, or old and comfortable comrades, and strolled away across the floor.

  Glad of being given a specific task, Pat Rin moved to the control desk, keeping an eye on the huddled group. The Healers blocked his sight of Nova, but, still, he was her nearest kin present and the Code was explicit as to his duties—until her father arrived to take them over.

  Behind the control desk, he touched keys, taking the current camera off-line and activating the back-up. He accessed the first’s memory, and started the preliminary scan.

  Murmurs came from across the room as he worked, but the thin, hopeless sobbing had at last ceased, and Pat Rin drew a deep breath of relief. The Healers were here; surely they would put all to rights—

  The sound of rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, a shadow flickered in the doorway, and Er Thom yos’Galan was in the room, face set and breathing as easily as if he had not all but run down the long hall—and quite possibly all the way from Port. He paused, scanning, discovered the Healers kneeling together on the show room floor, took a step—and checked turning slightly until he spied Pat Rin behind the desk.

  His mouth tightened and he came forward. Pat Rin touched the ‘pause’ key and drew himself straight.

  “Where is your cousin?” Er Thom asked, without greeting, in a voice so stringently calm that Pat Rin felt a small shiver of pity for stern and commonsense Cousin Er Thom.

  He inclined his head. “The Healers have come. Already, I believe the situation improves.”

  Er Thom glanced over his shoulder. “Could you not have moved her from the floor?”

  “She . . . did not know me,” Pat Rin said carefully, and put light fingertips against the cheek Nova had punched. “I had tried to move her, earlier, and she fought like a lyr-cat protecting her litter.” He took a breath. “It seemed best not to make a second attempt, with the Healers on the way.”

  “So.” Er Thom drew a careful breath of his own. “What do you?”

  “The Healers requested a copy of the tape.”

  “Tape?”

  Pat Rin swept a hand out, encompassing the showroom. “We were making an inventory of the rugs you had sent from the Southern House,” he murmured. “The camera was on, of course.”

  “Of course,” Korval-pernard’i said politely, and cast one more look at the Healers. Pat Rin could all but see his longing to go to his child’s side—and then saw discipline snap into place. A wise man—a man who wished the very best outcome for his wounded child—that man did not interrupt Healers at their work.

  Er Thom took a hard breath and stepped ’round the corner of the desk.

  “Show me the film,” he ordered.

  THE FEMALE HEALER had gone, taking Nova, Er Thom, and the copy of the work session recording with her and leaving her partner to examine the carpet knife—which he proclaimed harmless—and the carpet.

  “Ah, I see,” he murmured, as for the second time that afternoon Pat Rin unrolled the thing on the showroom floor. The Healer stepped onto the carpet, and Pat Rin tensed, half-expecting to see his face twist into that expression of angry pain.

  But whatever haunted the rug appeared to have no hold on the Healer. He knelt, carefully, at a corner and put his hands flat on the ivory-and-green pattern. Closing his eyes, he moved his hands over the rug, walking forward on his knees as he did so, as if he wished to stroke every fiber.

  Pat Rin, relieved that there would apparently be no second playing of the tragedy, removed himself to the control desk once more, and began to shut down for the day. He would inventory the remaining carpets tomorrow, he told himself. Alone.

  There was a small burble of sound and a flash of fly-away fur. Niki landed on silent pink toes by the control board. Pat Rin smiled and held out his hand; the cat rubbed her cheek against his fingers, then sat down, wrapped her tail neatly ’round her toes and squinted her eyes in a cat-smile, as if to assure him that all was well.

  Yes, precisely.

  He returned to his task, comforted by the routine and her silent presence—

  “What were your plans for that rug?”

  “Eh?” Pat Rin blinked, and looked up at the sudden Healer. “Truly, sir, it is not my place to have plans for it. I do not hide from you that it is an extremely valuable carpet, even if the stain cannot be removed, and that it belongs to Line yos’Galan.”

  “Stain?” murmured the Healer, tipping his head to one side. “There is no stain, young sir.”

  Pat Rin felt the hairs rise along the back of his neck.

  “Most assuredly,” he said, moving round the desk and marching toward the rug in question, “there is a stain.”

  “Here,” he said, arriving. He swept a hand downward, his eyes on the Healer’s face. “Only look here and you will see where the fringe has—”

  The Healer was watching his face, calmly. Pat Rin looked down.

  There was no brown stain marring the wave of ivory fringe. He bent, stroked the supple woolen nap which had scant hours before been stiff with—blood. Del Ben yos’Phelium’s blood.

  “I believe that the most excellent yos’Galan will not favor this rug, young sir,” the Healer murmured. “Perhaps you might take charge of it.” He raised his hand as if he had heard Pat Rin’s unspoken protest. And perhaps, thought Pat Rin, he had.

  “I will speak with your cousin on the matter, for it comes to me that such a rug, gotten at such cost, ought not to be destroyed, no matter the pain it has unwittingly brought to a daughter of the House.” The Healer cocked his head. “Keep it by, do.”

  Pat Rin bowed.

  “Very well,” the other said, with a sigh. “I leave you now, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Wait—” Pat Rin put out a hand as if he would physically restrain the man.

  The Healer paused. “Yes?”

  “My cousin Nova—what ailed her? Will she mend? How shall— ?”

  “Peace, peace,” the Healer laughed. “The masters must have their chance at diagnosis, but it seems to me that your cousin has a very rare talent in the dramliz spectrum.”

  Dramliza. Pat Rin closed his eyes. “What talent?” he asked, ’round the pain in his heart.

  “Why, she remembers,” the Healer said, as Pat Rin opened his eyes. “That’s all.” He gave the carpet one more long glance.

  “I really must—ah, a moment, of your kindness!” He leaned forward, and before Pat Rin knew what he intended, had cupped the injured cheek in a warm and slightly moist palm.

  There was a small tingle—and the pain flowed away, leaving only warmth.

  The Healer stepped back, placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

  “Peace unto you, Pat Rin yos’Phelium. Long life and fair profit.”

  “Healer—” Pat Rin began.

  But the Healer was gone.

  PIN’WELTIR HAD GONE some hours ahead of the rest, pleading another appointment, which seemed odd at that hour of the morning—but who was Pat Rin yos’Phelium to comment upon the arrangements of a mere acquaintance? He did note, privately, that pin’Weltir had not recalled this second appointment until Luken had roundly trounced him at piket, lightening his brash lordship’s purse by a considerable number of coins.

  Still, and excusing the early departure of a guest not much missed in his absence, Pat Rin counted this first party in his own establishment a success. He was quite sincerely exhausted by his hostly duties
, yet exhilarated.

  The last, late-staying guest bowed out, and the door locked, Pat Rin moved down the hall to the room he had made his study. There, as he expected, he found his fosterfather, seated in Pat Rin’s reading chair, thoughtfully gazing at the ivory-and-green carpet.

  Pat Rin hesitated in the doorway. Luken looked up, face roguish in the soft yellow light.

  “Well, boy-dear! Well, indeed. A most glorious crush, hosted with grace and style! I daresay you will sleep the day through, now.”

  “Not quite now,” Pat Rin murmured.

  Luken smiled. “A bit in the upper key, is it? Never mind it—very shortly Lord Pat Rin will find hosting a party three times merry this to be a mere nothing!”

  Pat Rin laughed. “Verily, Lord Pat Rin shall be nothing more nor less than a fidget-about-town. I wonder how you might bear with so slight a fellow.”

  “Now, there,” Luken said, with sudden seriousness, “you touch near to a topic I wished to bring before you. I wonder—have you thought of entering the lists at Tey Dor’s?”

  Pat Rin blinked, and drifted into the room, across the Tantara, to prop a hip against the desk and looked down into his fosterfather’s face.

  “I had never thought of competing at Tey Dor’s,” he said then. “Should I have?”

  “You might find that you will wish to do so,” Luken said, “as you consider the . . . affect you wish to sustain. For I do not think, boy-dear, that you would do very well in a long-term role either as fidget or as mushroom.”

  “Ah.” Pat Rin smiled. “Lord Pat Rin shall be flamboyant, shall he?”

  Luken raised a finger. “Lord Pat Rin, if you will permit me, boy-dear, shall be accomplished.”

  “I’ll grant that’s a happier thought,” his son said after a moment. He inclined his head. “Allow me to consider the matter, when my head is done spinning.”

  “Surely, surely.” Luken paused before murmuring. “I wonder if you have heard that young Nova takes lessons at the dramliz school now—and has passed the preliminary for third class pilot.”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “She was by a three-day gone, with a gift for the house. We drank tea and she caught me up with her news.”

  “Ah?” Luken said. “And how do you find yourselves aligned, if an old man might ask it.”

  “We are—comfortable,” Pat Rin said after a moment. “She—I do not know how such a thing might be, but—she remembers both sides of the . . . incident, and we have, thereby, an understanding.”

  There was a small silence. “Good,” Luken said, simply, and pushed himself out of the chair. Pat Rin leapt forward to offer him an arm.

  “Must you leave?” he asked, and Luken laughed.

  “I daresay the two of us might now repair to the Port for a game or six, were I thirty years younger!” He said, patting Pat Rin’s hand. “But you must have pity on an old man and allow me to seek my bed.”

  “Certainly,” Pat Rin replied, walking with him toward the hallway. “I will summon a cab.”

  “Assuredly you will, sir!” Luken turned suddenly, face serious. “Lord Pat Rin will have servants to attend to these small matters for him.”

  “I daresay he might,” Pat Rin retorted, with spirit, “for those who are merely guests. But if Lord Pat Rin should ever fail of attending the father of his heart personally, I shall know him for a worthless dog, no matter his accomplishments.”

  Luken paused, then extended a hand to cup Pat Rin’s cheek.

  “Sweet lad.” He let the hand fall away and smiled, softly. “Call for the cab, then, and be welcome.”

  Quickly, Pat Rin stepped back into his study and made the call. Turning back, he saw Luken framed in the doorway, his eyes dreaming once more upon the Tantara.

  “Father?” he said, abruptly.

  Luken looked up, face mild. “Child?”

  Pat Rin cleared his throat. “I—do you mind?” he blurted. “The carpet—it is yours; the treasure of your Line. It should—”

  Luken held up a hand. “Peace.” He glanced down at the ivory-and-green design, smiling slightly as he once again met Pat Rin’s eyes.

  “I allow it to be a gem, and everything that is graceful. Even, I allow it to be a family heirloom. Who best to have the keeping of such a treasure, than my son?”

  Pat Rin’s eyes filled. “Father—”

  “Nay, I’ll brook no argument, willful creature! Hark! Is that the cab?”

  It was. Luken fastened his cloak and together they went down the steps to the walk. Pat Rin opened the door and saw his father comfortably disposed. That done, he handed the driver a coin.

  “Goodnight, boy-dear,” Luken said from the back. “Sweet dreams to you.”

  “Goodnight, Father,” he returned, stepping back from the curb. “Sweet dreaming.”

  The cab pulled away, accelerating smoothly down the long, dark street.

  Sweet Waters

  THE TRAP HAD taken a kwevit—a fat one, too.

  Slade smiled, well-pleased. Beside him, Verad, his hunting-partner and his oldest friend among the Sanilithe, saving Gineah, grunted in mingled admiration and annoyance.

  “The Skylady Herself looks after you, small brother. Three times this day, your spear failed to find its target, yet you return to your tent with a fair hunting of meat.”

  “The hunters before us this morning were noisy and hurried—making the game scarce and distant even for your arm,” said Slade. “My spear flies not quite so far.”

  Verad waved a broad hand at the sky in a gesture meant to take in the whole of the world, and perhaps the whole of the universe.

  “It is the trail we find today, hunter.”

  Slade nearly smiled—Verad’s stern-voiced lesson could have as easily come from one of his merchant uncles, for all that those uncles would scarcely acknowledge Verad human and capable of thought, much less sly humor. The humor was lacking at the moment, so Slade kept his smile behind his teeth, and moved quietly toward the trap and its skewered victim.

  “If I am a poor hunter,” he asked, “is it wrong to find another way to take meat?”

  “The tent must eat,” Verad allowed. “Still, small brother, a hunter should keep several blades in his belt, and be equally skilled with all.”

  Slade knelt on the wiry moss, put his spear down, and carefully removed his kill from the trap.

  “One skill at a time,” he murmured. “The tent must eat speaks with a larger voice than Slade must hunt with erifu.”

  From the side of his eye, he saw his friend make the sign to ward off ill luck. Slade sighed. Erifu—“art,” or, as he sometimes thought, “magic”—was the province of women, who held knowledge, history and medicine. Men hunted, herded, and worked metal into the designs betold them by the women.

  “If you are a bad hunter and discourteous, too,” Verad commented, settling onto a nearby rock. “you will be left to stand by the fire until the coals are cold.” He blinked deliberately, one eye after another.

  Slade frowned, rubbing the trap with nesom, the herb hunters massaged into their skin so the game would not scent them.

  “What if I am left unChosen?” he asked, for Gineah had been vague on this point. He situated the trap and set the release, then came to his feet in one fluid motion.

  “Those left unChosen must leave the Sanilithe and find another tribe to take them.”

  Slade turned and stared—but, no, Verad’s face was serious. This was no joke.

  “So, I must be Chosen.” He chewed his lip. “What if I do not come to the fire?”

  Now, Verad stared. “Not come to the fire? You must! It is law: All blooded hunters who are without a wife must stand at the fire on the third night after the third purification of the Dark Camp’s borders.”

  Tomorrow night, to be precise, thought Slade. He would be there, around the fire—a son of the grandmother’s tent could do no less than obey the law. But . . .

  “Sun’s going,” Verad said.

  Slade picked up his kwevit by
the long back legs and lashed the dead animal to his belt. He recovered his spear, flipped his braid behind a shoulder with a practiced jerk of his head, and nodded at his friend. “I am ready.”

  * * *

  The scattered tents of the Sanilithe came together for Dark Camp in a valley guarded by three toothy mountain peaks. It was toward the third mountain, which Gineah had taught him was called “Nariachen” or “Raincatcher” that Slade journeyed, slipping out of the grandmother’s tent after the camp was asleep. He went lightly, with a hunter’s caution, and spear to hand, the cord looped ’round his wrist; the broad ribbon of stars blazing overhead more than bright enough to light his way.

  He should not, strictly speaking, be away from night camp at all. Man was prey to some few creatures on this world, several of which preferred to hunt the night. But come away he must, as he had during the last two Dark Camps—and which he might never do again, regardless of tomorrow night’s outcome.

  To the left, a twisty stand of vegetation formed out of the shadow—what passed for trees. He slipped between the spindly trunks and into the shocking darkness of the glade, where he paused. When he had his night eyes, he went on, angling toward the mountain face—and shortly came to that which was not natural.

  It might seem at first glance a shattered boulder, overgrown with such vegetations as were able to take root along its pitted surface.

  At next glance, assuming one hailed from a civilized world, it was seen to be a ship, spine-broke and half-buried in the ungiving gray soil.

  Slade moved forward. Upon reaching the remains of his ship, he fitted the fingers of both hands into an indentation of the tertiary hatch, braced himself and hauled it back on its track, until there was a gap wide enough to admit him.

  Inside was deep darkness, and he went slowly, feeling his way along the broken corridor, his soft-soled boots whispering against the dusty plates. His questing fingers found an indention in the wall, he pressed and a door clicked open.

  Carefully, for there was torn and broken metal even inside the one-time supply cabinet, he groped within.