Scouts Progress

by Sharon Lee

  "MASTER JON! JOY to you, sir!" Var Mon strode into the center of the repair bay, head up and voice exuberant.

  Aelliana, trailing by several steps, saw a stocky figure come to the edge of shadow cast by a work-lift, casually wiping its hands on a faded red rag.

  "I'm not lending you another cantra, you scoundrel," the figure said sourly, for all the mode was Comrade. "What's more, you're due in Comparative Cultures in twenty minutes and I'll not have it said I was responsible for keeping you beyond time."

  "Not a bit of it," Var Mon cried, apparently not at all put out by this rather surly welcome. He reached into his pouch and danced into the shadow. Grasping a newly-cleaned hand, he deposited two gleaming coins on the broad palm and closed the fingers tight.

  "Debt paid!" he said gaily and spun, bowing with a flourish that called attention to Aelliana, hesitating yet between light and shadow.

  "Master Jon, I bring you Aelliana Caylon, owner of Ride the Luck. Scholar Caylon, Master Jon dea'Cort, owner of Binjali Repair Shop."

  "Caylon?" Master dea'Cort at last stepped forward into the light, revealing a man well past middle years, sturdy rather than stout, his hair a close-clipped strip of rusty gray about four of her slender fingers wide. Eyes the color of old amber looked into her face with the directness of a Scout.

  "Scholar Aelliana Caylon," he asked, big voice pitched gently, though he still spoke in Comrade mode, "revisor of the ven'Tura Tables?"

  She inclined her head, and answered in Adult-to-Adult. "It is kind of you to recall."

  "Recall! How might I—or any pilot!—forget?" He bowed then, distressingly low—the bow of Esteem for a Master—and straightened with his hand over his heart.

  "Scholar, you honor my establishment. How I may be allowed to serve you?"

  Aelliana raised her hand to ward the reverence in the old man's voice. To know her as the revisor of one of the most important of a pilot's many tools—that was grace, though not entirely unexpected. Jon dea'Cort had undoubtedly been a Scout in former years and Aelliana strongly suspected his "master" derived from "master pilot."

  "Please, sir," she said, hearing how breathless her voice sounded. "You do me overmuch honor. Indeed, it is not at all—" Here she hesitated, uncertain how she might proceed with her disclaimer, without calling the master's melant'i into question.

  "Var Mon, are you here, you young rakehell?" the old man snarled over his shoulder.

  "Aye, Master Jon!"

  "Then jet, damn you—and mind you're on time for class!"

  "Aye, Master Jon! Good-day to you, Scholar. Until Trilsday-noon!"

  Var Mon was gone, running silently past Aelliana's shoulder. She heard nothing, then a whine and sigh as the crew door cycled.

  "So." Jon dea'Cort smiled, waking wrinkles at eye-corners and mouth. "You were about to tell me that I do you too much honor. How much honor should I lay at the feet of the scholar responsible for preserving the lives of half-a-thousand pilots?"

  "Half-a—oh, but that's averaged over the years since publication, of course." Aelliana looked down, tongue-tied and graceless as ever when dealing outside the familiar role of teacher-to-student.

  "You must understand," she told her boot-toes. She cleared her throat. "The tables were in need of revision and I was able to undertake the project. To recall my name as the one who did the work—that is kind. But, you must understand, to offer such honor to one who merely—" She faltered, hands twisting about each other.

  "I teach math," she finished, lamely.

  There was a short silence, before Jon dea'Cort spoke, voice matter-of-fact in Comrade Mode.

  "Well, nothing wrong with that, is there? I taught piloting, myself, and to such a thankless pack of puppies as I hope you'll never see!"

  Aelliana glanced up, hair swinging around her face. "You are a master pilot."

  "Right enough. Most of us are, hereabout." He tipped his balding head to one side, offering another smile. "What might I do for you, math teacher?"

  She lowered her eyes, refusing the smile as she refused Comrade Mode.

  "I had come to inspect Ride the Luck, of which I am owner."

  "So my problem-child said," Jon dea'Cort said placidly. "I hadn't known Ride the Luck was for sale."

  "I—it wasn't." She moved her shoulders. "I won it last evening from Lord Vin Sin chel'Mara—in a round of pikit."

  "Beat him at his own game!" Jubilation was plain in Master dea'Cort's voice, from which Aelliana deduced that His Lordship was not a favored patron. "Well done, math teacher! Here, let me fetch the jitney and I'll take you out myself. Beat the chel'Mara at pikit, by gods! I won't be a moment. . ."

  "SHE'S A SWEET SHIP," Jon dea'Cort was saying some minutes later, sending the jitney full-speed down the yard's central avenue. "She's seen some hard times of late, but she's sound. Show her kindness and she'll do very well . . . Here we are."

  The jitney shivered to a stop; Master dea'Cort slid out of the driver's slot and walked toward the ramp.

  In the passenger's seat, Aelliana sat and stared, her hands cold and slick with sweat.

  "Scholar Caylon?" There was worry in the big voice.

  With an effort, Aelliana moved her eyes from the ship—hers, hers—to the face of the man standing beside her.

  "It's a Jumpship," she told him, as if such a vital point of information could have someway escaped a master pilot's expert notice.

  He glanced over his shoulder and up the ramp, then returned his amber gaze to her face. "Class A," he agreed gravely, and held out a companionable hand. "Care to see inside?"

  She could remember wanting nothing else so much.

  "Yes," she said hungrily and slipped out of the jitney, deftly avoiding Jon dea'Cort's touch.

  AELLIANA BROUGHT THE board up and watched, rapt, as the ship ran its self-check. Each green go-light added to her wracking store of joy until she found herself clutching the back of the pilot's chair, wet fingers smearing the ivory leather.

  The check ended on three chimed notes and she reluctantly touched the off-switch before allowing Jon dea'Cort to lead her further into the ship.

  There was a dining alcove containing a gourmet automat, as well as a tiny dispensary housing a premium autodoc.

  "Likes everything binjali, the chel'Mara," Master dea'Cort murmured and led her down a short companionway.

  Aelliana followed him over the threshold of what should have been the pilot's quarters and stopped short, blinking at mountains of silks, sleeping furs, pillows of every hue and size. The floor was covered in a rug so fine she felt a pang of sorrow for having set her boots upon it. Tapestry gardens burgeoning with ripe fruits made the walls an oasis.

  The illumination in the chamber was unusually firm and Aelliana glanced up, expecting to see a light fixture in keeping with the rest.

  Instead, she looked up into the room she was standing in, Jon dea'Cort at the door, lined face carefully bland, while her own, reflected without distortion, showed slightly pale, with lips half-parted.

  She glanced down, not quite able to stifle the sigh, and spoke over her shoulder.

  "Everything binjali?"

  "Understand," Master dea'Cort said earnestly, "the chel'Mara's no pilot. Happens he had other uses for a ship. And yon mirrors are top-grade."

  "I see." She walked past him and into the room across the hall, which would have been the co-pilot's quarters in any other ship. In this ship, it was the twin of the orgy room. Aelliana sighed again and turned down the light.

  "Guess you're ready to see the hold," Master dea'Cort said then, and showed her the way to the access door and how to punch in her code.

  The door slid back and the lights came up and the first things she saw again were the damned mirrors. She had just enough time to wonder how anyone could be such a popinjay, when she saw the rest.

  Some items she could name—silken cords and leather lashes, a few of the less arcane articles laid neatly in their cases, the swing suspended from the ceiling, the post with its
built-in manacles.

  Most, however, were unfamiliar: What, for instance, was the purpose of that oddly-shaped table, or the counterbalanced bench or—

  Aelliana took a deep breath, turned carefully and lifted her face. Resolutely, she met Jon dea'Cort's eyes, and saw sympathy there.

  "Master dea'Cort, I need your advice," she said, yet keeping to Adult-to-Adult.

  "Math teacher, ask me."

  With an effort, she kept her face up, her eyes steady; her hands were behind her back, twisting themselves into sweat-slicked knots.

  "I had—thought," she said, "that I had acquired a working ship. It seems instead that I have acquired a—a bordello. What is your estimate of the time and expense required to restore this ship to its—original specifications?"

  "Not a cantra," he said promptly, "and about a three-day—maybe four, depending on the crew I get." He grinned.

  "No need to look like I'm pulling teeth," he told her. "I told you the chel'Mara liked everything binjali, eh? The toys are worth something, sold to the right party, and the mirrors—Math teacher, you could refit to spec on the profit from the mirrors alone! Had 'em set on gimbals, so they'd always be oriented, whatever G or spin the ship took on—made out of scanner-glass to withstand take-off stress and not flow—a rare wonder, these mirrors, and there are those who appreciate wonder."

  Aelliana closed her eyes, trying to think, to work the steps.

  "Do you know the proper—the proper buyers? I confess that I am not—"

  "I can act as broker," he said easily. "My fee's ten percent off the top. We'll bring her back up to working weight, deduct labor and parts from what remains and put the profit into your ship's account. Deal?"

  She opened her eyes. "Profit?"

  "Bound to be a cantra or two left over," he said, looking around the gleaming playground. "Some of the toys are speciality items, and those mirrors haven't gotten any cheaper."

  "Oh," Aelliana said, feeling rather adrift. She inclined her head formally. "Thank you, sir. I accept your deal."

  "Well enough, then." He waved her out ahead of him.

  "Will you be starting to work her at once?" he asked as they went back down the companionway.

  "At once? I—I must take the piloting exam," Aelliana said, slowly. "And—flight time. . ."

  There was a slight sound from behind her, as if Master dea'Cort had sneezed.

  "You haven't—forgive me. I understand you to say that you have no piloting license."

  "Not at the moment," she said, "but I shall be taking the exam—I have classes tomorrow . . . I shall take the exam on Banim. Second class is required to lift Class A locally, sir, is that correct?"

  "Correct."

  They had reached the dispensary. Aelliana paused, staring down into the 'doc's opaque hood.

  "I shall acquire a second class, then," she said, feeling necessity like a stone in her gut. "I will work this ship."

  "I don't doubt it," Jon dea'Cort said from beside her. "If you wish, I can test you, or one of my crew. We're all of us master class, as I said. Or you can call ahead to the Pilot's Guild in Chonselta and be sure they can accommodate you on Banim."

  "I believe that will be best," she said, still staring down into the darkness.

  "I'll call them now," he said, "while you use the unit here."

  She turned sharply. "Use the unit?"

  "No sense leaving that untreated when you've the means to mend it," he said, tapping his own wrist. "It's a rare wonder how those little things can eat away at your concentration." He moved down the hall. "I'll just get Chonselta Guild on the line. . ."

  He was gone. Aelliana looked down at the bruises circling her wrist. They seemed more vivid now than they had, hours earlier, outside of Quenpalt's Casino. And, now that she was reminded of them, they did ache.

  Well, she thought, with a flash of amused irritation, she was here and the autodoc was here. At the very least, mending the hurt would put a stop to all this rather embarrassing solicitude.

  So thinking, she tapped the proper code into the 'doc, rolled back her sleeve and slid the wrist through the open hood.

  Chapter Eight

  What's in a name? That which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet.

  —From Romeo and Juliet,

  Act ii, Scene 2

  William Shakespeare

  VIN SIN CHEL'MARA was not a man accustomed to his delm's close attention. Most especially, he was unaccustomed to the felicity of receiving such attention during his rather belated breakfast.

  "How pleasant it must be," Aragon murmured politely, as tea was poured and set before him, "to sleep so far into the day that one may dispose of noon meal and waking meal in one repast. I quite admire the efficiency of such an arrangement."

  Since this particular arrangement had been in force for a number of years without awaking the delm's displeasure, his comment now was doubtless prologue to some other, less amiable, subject. chel'Mara inclined his head, as one acknowledging a pleasantry, and poured himself a second glass of wine.

  "The single difficulty I detect in such a system," Aragon pursued, "is that it opens one to disadvantage in the matter of collecting rumor and anecdote—vital work, as I am certain you will agree. For an instance, I had today from Delm Guayar an entirely amusing anecdote out of Chonselta, of all places. Had I adopted your strategy of late sleeping, rather than rising early to attend Lady yo'Lanna's breakfast gather, I should have failed of harvesting this amusing—and instructive—tit-bit."

  The chel'Mara schooled his face to calmness; deliberately raised his glass and sipped.

  "You are behindhand, Vin Sin," his delm chided softly. "Good manners dictate you allow me the pleasure of imparting my news."

  Vin Sin chel'Mara did not reign over Solcintra's deepest tables because he was a fool. Still, there was nothing for it but to allow this trick to fall to Aragon and accept whatever chastisement became his due. He was not in the habit of falling under his delm's displeasure, and he considered the odds favorable for a quick recover.

  He inclined his head. "Forgive me, sir. I fear I am dreadfully stupid so early in the day. Whatever came out of Chonselta to amuse you?"

  "Why, the drollest tale I've heard in many a breakfast gather," Aragon said composedly. "It seems a certain Quenpalt's Casino has opened in Chonselta Port and it is rumored to stand with the best Solcintra has to offer. Last evening, indeed, much of Solcintra undertook the journey to the far side of the world in order to see this wonder for themselves."

  "And was reality as pleasing as rumor?"

  Aragon pursed his lips in consideration.

  "Rumor and reality appear to have agreed splendidly," he said after a moment. "Quenpalt's is, by all accounts, a casino in which one such as yourself, let us say, may be perfectly at ease."

  He paused to sip tea. chel'Mara refrained from his wine.

  "To make a long tale short," Aragon resumed gently, "it transpires that—again—one such as yourself was present at Quenpalt's last evening, and, having availed himself of certain monies thrown in his direction by a gentleman who has regrettably never mastered the art of pikit, set himself to contend against a walk-in." Aragon gazed pensively into chel'Mara's face.

  "There were some oddities attending this walk-in. She was shabby-dressed, according to report, and plain-spoken, when she spoke at all; she did not offer her name, nor was she asked to give it. She was accompanied by two Scouts—one male, one female, both young.

  "The shabby lady declared she would stake her quarter-share, some four cantra, according to my information. The gentleman so like yourself plucked four cantra from his bank—and was forestalled by the person he had just bested, who called to mind—quite properly!—certain delicate points of melant'i, in which he was seconded by the male Scout. The Stakes Book was called for and the wager recorded thus: Quarter-share against ship. It was the very first entry, you will be interested to learn, in Quenpalt's Stakes Book." He had recourse to his
tea once more. chel'Mara sat like a stone, his hands quite cold.

  "So. The shabby lady won her venture—aided once more by the male Scout, who chose, I am a told, an interesting point in the play to settle a debt he had long owed her. The ship of the gentleman so very like yourself changed hands. In the course of recording the win, the shabby lady at last gave her name: Aelliana Caylon."

  It was time to have done with this charade. chel'Mara inclined his head with exquisite courtesy.

  "So she did."

  "So she did," his delm echoed gently. "And, having now heard it twice, the name yet awakes no interest. I fear, Vin Sin, that you have not been as close a student of the world as I had always supposed."

  chel'Mara swallowed a sharp return, preserving a courteous countenance with—some—effort.

  "Aelliana Caylon," Aragon continued, after a moment spent savoring the last of his tea, "is the third child of the four borne by Birin Caylon, who has the honor to be Mizel." He moved his shoulders. "Mizel totters on the edge of mid-House. It is my notion that it will tumble into Low House, when the present nadelm comes to his own. But that is not the card we must trump."

  "Aelliana Caylon," the chel'Mara suggested, with delicate irony, "supports the tottering fortunes of her clan by performing—card tricks, shall we say?"

  Aragon raised a considering brow. "It might do," he allowed gently, "although I believe the lady's range to be somewhat wider than mere—card tricks." His eyes sharpened. "Do the ven'Tura Tables wake recollection, Vin Sin?"

  "Certainly."

  "Ah, delightful. You will then be able to tell me the name of the author of the revision, dated, I believe, eight years ago?"

  chel'Mara frowned. "The name? Truly, sir, it was merely this scholar or that. No one I've met."

  "Until last evening. How unfortunate, that you were not able to give Honored Scholar of Subrational Mathematics Aelliana Caylon her full bow, upon introduction." Aragon leaned forward, hands flat on the pale cloth.

  "The foremost mathematical mind on the planet," he said, very softly, indeed, "who makes the study of random event her speciality. Her thesis—a classic in the field, so Guayar assures me—was entitled, Chaotic Patterning in Pseudorandom Events. In it, the scholar demonstrates the manner in which one may predict card-fall, based upon an ordered diminishment of pooled possibility, as one might find when playing pikit." He leaned back, with a soft sigh.