by Sharon Lee
Aelliana bit her lip. "I—beg your pardon," she stammered, looking down into Daav's eyes. "I shall stand."
"What? Forgo the best seat in the house?" Frad demanded, turning from his redhead with a grin. "Besides, Daav wants sitting on, now and then."
The others laughed. Trilla was between her two former dance partners, an arm around one's shoulders, a hand on the other's knee. The first dancer sipped from a glass, then held it to Trilla's lips. After Trilla had drunk, the first dancer held the glass for the second.
Apel, who was leaning on Jon's shoulder, her cheek perilously close to his, frowned down-table.
"Daav, your partner has no wine."
"Wine for Pilot Caylon!" Frad cried, snatching an empty glass from the table's center. He flourished it at the redhead, who captured a neighboring bottle and poured. Frad leaned over and placed the glass with an authoritative thump. "Good lift, pilot."
His attention was back with the redhead before Aelliana's "Safe landing" was complete.
"Do you wish the chair, Aelliana?" Daav's voice was soft, for her ears alone.
She turned her head, again looking down into his eyes. "I am—afraid—I have never sat on anyone's knee."
"Nor is there reason for you to do so now, if you don't wish it," he said earnestly. "Stand a moment and allow me to rise."
"I—" She bit her lip, then gave him the truth, as a partner ought. "I think I should like to learn, Daav."
Laughter sparked across his face. "Ah, would you? Then allow me to be your teacher." There was a light touch at her waist—his hand, warm and firm, easing her back until she was sitting sidewise against him, her legs across his.
"Your near arm along my shoulders, if you will," he murmured and she complied; her breast pressed gently against his chest.
She stilled. Daav was warm against her, pleasing in a way that seemed related to the dance, his arm supporting her back, his hand curved over her hip.
"Aelliana?"
Deliberately, she drew a breath, and relaxed into him. Dance-like, indeed, she thought, catching an edge of that same subtle dazzlement. She bent her head, saw the shine of silver along his neck, where the collar gaped loose.
She touched it with a forefinger.
"What is this?" she whispered, her mouth near his ear.
"A chain," he whispered back. She laughed softly and felt him shiver.
"Would you like some wine?" he murmured and with her assent leaned forward. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the muscles shifting as he bent and her body bending with his—within his.
"Wine," he said. She opened her eyes to take the glass and sip, then offered it to him.
"Wine?" she asked softly, as Trilla's friend had done.
His eyes took fire. She felt—something—quiver through him; felt her heart begin an odd, thick pounding. . .
"Heads up!" That was Jon.
Aelliana felt Daav shift under her as the others leapt to their feet, bowing low to the three who approached the table.
Two men, one woman; one of the men in Scout leather; all bearing themselves as persons of authority. Aelliana gasped, suddenly knowing who they must be. Belatedly, she began to rise.
The man in Scout leather raised a hand. "Never mind, pilot," he said in Comrade. "I'd say you'd earned a comfortable seat and that one—" a casual finger-flip toward Daav—"owes me so many bows he might as well be your chair."
"Commander," Daav said gravely.
The older man inclined his head. "Captain."
"Ah, is this Pilot Aelliana Caylon?" the woman asked, coming forward to stand by Scout Commander. She bowed respect. "I am Narna vin'Tayla, Solcintra Port Master." She reached out and captured the remaining man, who had been speaking strenuously with Jon.
"Pilot Guild Master Per Sea ren'Gelder," she said and the man bowed, quickly.
"We are not here to disturb your celebration," Scout Commander said, with a glimmer of humor. "Master ren'Gelder has an item belonging to Pilot Caylon."
"Yes." Master ren'Gelder made another quick bow, leaned forward and placed a metal card on the table before Aelliana.
"This," he said briskly, "is the license for First Class Pilot Aelliana Caylon. This," he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a data-disk, "is the list of pilots endorsing Pilot Caylon's first class status—" he glanced at his wrist—"as of two hours ago." He inclined his head. "We shall, of course, forward an updated list to Ride the Luck maincomp."
Aelliana stared, then bent swiftly forward, reaching for that flat rectangle. Daav's hand shifted to her waist, lending her balance.
First Class: The words leapt out at her, the date of today—or, rather, yesterday—the endorsing pilot—she flipped the card over—
"Acclaim?"
Port Master smiled. "Thus the data-disk. It seems every Scout and master pilot on and around Liad has called to endorse your ascension, Pilot." Her smile widened. "There are several Terran masters in that list, as well."
"I—" It was on the edge of her tongue to protest that she had done nothing, that it had been a mere exercise in—She swallowed, inclined her head, feeling Daav's body solid and sure against hers.
"I thank you," she said formally.
"Custom has now been satisfied," Scout Commander announced, and turned with a sweep of his hand. "dea'Cort, you old ship-jockey, where's my wine?"
SHE HAD ASKED HIM to escort her to her ship, which was nothing more than a pilot might ask of her co-pilot—or of her partner. He accepted the duty gladly, though he might have served her better by placing her into Clonak's care. His emotions were—not quiescent.
Even now, walking sedately hand-in-hand, he felt her presence as an intoxicant, so that he fought a mad desire to pull her close, to bury his face in her hair, run his hands over her strong, fragile body, to taste the honey of her skin. . .
Shuddering, he drew in a deep lungful of dew-early air.
He must not, he told himself, allow this sudden passion rein. A brief night of shared pleasure and a return to easy comradeship on the morrow—that was for some, and no harm in it. But not for Aelliana. For Aelliana, there must be gentleness and a skillful awakening, and night after night of joy—
He gasped, staggered.
"Daav?" Her voice carried concern.
"A trifle too much wine," he said, charging his voice with rue. "No cause for alarm."
Really, Daav, he scolded himself silently, such unseemly display.
Beside him, Aelliana drew an audible breath. "Is there anything I must hold from, when I speak with Scout Commander Trilsday? I would not wish to make—to make an error."
"Even if you were likely to make an error," Daav said, glad of the diversion of conversation, "Jon will be with you, will he not? You may rely entirely upon him."
"Yes, of course. It is only. . ." her voice faded.
He smiled, which she would not see in the darkness. "Be easy, Aelliana. The Commander only wishes to increase the honor of Scout Headquarters by allowing you free run of the World Room."
"And it is very kind in him," she said warmly. "I only wonder how—it is—that people go on in the—in Outspace, when there is no one but one's self to rely upon and the care of strangers must be suspect. Who will I—who insures that error does not occur?"
She begins to understand what the license in her pocket may purchase, Daav thought, and to see that some of those goods may well be—dangerous.
"The universe is imperfect, " he said, speaking plain truth, which a co-pilot must, in matters of the pilot's safety. "Error occurs. On Liad, the correction of error is social art. In Outspace, it is—a natural force. Those who exercise faulty judgment, die. Those who pilot badly, die. Those who watch, and learn, and have a certain measure of the luck, prosper." He paused, then added, earnestly, "It is possible to be happy, Aelliana. Only be careful, do."
She stopped, her fingers hard around his, and turned to face him in the dark.
"Some pilots take partners," she said, and her voice was not s
teady.
"Yes."
"Yes," she repeated and after a moment began to walk again, he, hand-linked, beside her.
They came without further talk or incident to The Luck. Daav released her hand with a pang and stepped aside so that she might proceed him up the long ramp. At the top, she worked keys and code and the hatch slid open, adding ship's illumination to the dim gantry-light.
In the wash of ship-light she turned to him, close on the narrow landing. Deliberately, she moved closer. Her hand rose to his shoulder, as if they were about to dance.
"Daav?" Her eyes were green, brilliant in the yellow light; her face at once hesitant and resolved.
"Aelliana—" Breath failed him. He stood, quivering, beneath her hand, lost in the brilliance of her eyes.
She bit her lip. "I do not have the pretty words, but I ask you with all—all honor and—care. I feel that Liad chafes—that you would rather be away. I—I will not be able, I think, to return, once I have gone." Anxiety fogged her eyes for a moment. "No dishonor, not—as Scouts understand honor. Merely, a life that is not—world-bound." She drew a ragged breath, her fingers gripping his shoulder tight. "Will you partner with me, van'chela, when I go outworld?"
Almost, he shouted yes, and threw everything to the stars: tore Korval's Ring from around his neck and hurled it to the stones below, gathered Aelliana into his arms and bore her within.
Almost.
"I—cannot." He heard his own voice quaver. Aelliana's face went still.
"Cannot?"
"I am promised to wed," his voice—his sense—made answer. "My clan has—use—for me." He swallowed, hard in a sand-dry throat, extended one shaking finger and touched her cheek. "You offer—my heart's desire, Aelliana. Believe me."
He did not know if she did. Pain tightened her face and she stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. She bent her head quickly, but not before he saw the glitter of tears.
"Aelliana—"
She raised a hand, forestalling him. "It is—I regret," she achieved, with a formal intonation that tore at his heart. She cleared her throat and dared lift her face to his.
"Good lift, Daav."
"Safe landing, Aelliana."
She turned and went into her ship. The hatch cycled, shutting him out of the light.
Chapter Thirty-One
A lifemating is a far more serious matter than a mere contract-marriage, encompassing the length of the partner's lives, even if one should die. One of the pair must leave his or her clan of origin to join the clan of the lifemate. At that time the adoptive clan pays a "life-price" based on the individual's profession, age and internal value to the former clan.
Tradition has it that lifemates share a "bond of heart and mind." In view of Liaden cultural acceptance of "wizards," some scholars have interpreted this to mean that lifemates are "psychically" connected. Or, alternatively, that the only true lifematings occur between wizards.
There is little to support this theory. True, lifematings among Liadens are rare. But so are life-long marriages among Terrans.
—From "Marriage Customs of Liad"
SHE RAN, FOR there was no place to hide.
Sick with terror, she hurtled through mazy back streets, across broad plazas, down endless ship-halls—and still—and still—It followed.
Its Shadow fell behind her, annihilating the street she had just traversed. Panting, she skidded around a corner, sprinted across a wide thoroughfare and ducked into the gateway of a private courtyard. She dared not rest long, yet rest she must, for her heart was near to bursting, and her sobbing gasps scarcely brought sufficient air to lungs afire with exertion.
She leaned into the warm friendly shadow of the gateway, muscles trembling. Dimly, she wondered how long she could stay this brutal pace and where in the confusion of Port-ways and corridor she might locate a weapon.
Even in the exultation of her terror, she knew that a weapon would not halt the Shadow. It was that which cast the Shadow against which she wished, most fervently, to be armed. A being capable of generating so horrifying an Adumbration—that she would not face unarmed.
Her breath shuddered through her, echoing weirdly off the close walls of her huddling place. She detected a movement at the edge of the street and pushed away from the wall, steeling herself to run again.
Exhausted muscles betrayed her. She moved one step, two, and folded to her knees at the entrance of the gateway, teeth locked to hold in the shout of despair.
The corner she had turned only moments ago—vanished, eaten by a blackness so absolute that the eyes rebelled and insisted on multicolored lights in the Shadow's depth—a road upon which it was cast.
It hesitated, the Shadow did, and seemed to look about Itself. On her knees atop the paving stones, Samiv tel'Izak held still as might be, hoping against horrified certainty that It would—this once—miss the way.
Half a mile high, It loomed, Its head a twisting mass of black limbs, Its trunk as wide as a warehouse and the wind that proceeded It was cold, carrying the stink of rotting leaves.
The Shadow turned and half the thoroughfare between It and her huddling place was eclipsed. Wind skirled around her, rank with rot, and overhead she heard a steady, ominous beat, as if enormous wings worked the sky. Samiv raised her arms above her head, pitiful shield though they made, and stared down the diminished street, into the blackness of her Enemy.
But the Shadow did not advance. Above, the beat of wings grew stronger, nearer, until at last it was thunder, driving a dust-laden wind into her inadequate shelter, so that she bent, bringing her arms down to protect her face.
The thunder of wings ceased. She straightened into shadow, blinked to clear her dust-grimed eyes.
A hand gripped her shoulder.
Samiv tel'Izak screamed.
THE HATCH CAME down, sealing him out.
Numbly, Aelliana crossed to her station, sat, reached out and triggered initial board check.
Lights flickered, screens glowed: Her ship, coming to life.
Her ship.
She could lift now, this minute; the first class license rode, safe, in her sleeve. There was nothing to tie her here, not clan, nor kin, nor—
"Daav?"
No deep, calm voice answered her whisper; no tall, silent-moving form tickled the edge of her vision. She was alone.
Odd, how badly that hurt. For so many years, alone had been everything she wished for.
The board chimed readiness; the screens showed ships, sleeping all around. In screen number six a slim figure walked, shoulders stooped in an attitude so alien it was not until a random light snagged along the silver earring that she knew him.
"Daav!" She snapped forward, palm slapping screen, as if she would reach through plastic, chip and ether—
He reached the top of the row and turned left, vanishing toward. . .
She didn't even know where he lived.
"Oh, gods."
The board lights blurred out of sense. She wiped at her eyes with impatient fingers, mildly surprised when they came away wet. Tears. Her husband had enjoyed tears; had found a thousand ways to wring them from her, until she refused to weep, no matter how he hurt her.
He had been a master of pain, her husband. But no effort of his genius had produced such agony as this.
The comm light glowed in the corner of her eye. She turned toward it, hope igniting its own agony.
She had his comm number.
Call me, his voice murmured from memory, if there is need . . .
Her hand flicked forward. She snatched it back, brought it, fisted, against her lips and merely sat there, crying in earnest now, for he was lost, sworn to wed and be of use to his clan, whatever and wherever it was. Bound, as even a Scout may be bound, by the knots of kin and duty. To call him now would surely do harm. To beg him for—
What?
A return to the ensorcellment of the dance, when they had moved and thought as one being? To feel his body, strong and lithe, against hers? The
gift of his humor and hard common sense? The certain knowledge that, whenever in her life she looked to the co-pilot's station, he would be there, keeping his serene, impeccable board?
She scrubbed at drenched cheeks, pressed the heels of both hands against her eyes in an effort to dam the tears that had become a torrent.
The tears would not be stopped. She leaned forward until her cheek was against first board and there she lay, sobbing into the chill plastic, until, at last, she fell into a gray, uneasy sleep.
IT COULD NOT BE said that Ran Eld Caylon was a man addicted to news. Where current events touched upon Ran Eld Caylon, there his interest was avid. For events centered in other spheres, his interest was—minimal.
Let Sinit ride the news-wire, exclaiming over Council on-dits, the publication of tedious professorial tomes or the undignified stunts of pilots. Enough time for Ran Eld to notice the Council of Clans when he was himself a participant in history. As for the work of professors and pilots—it was difficult to say which bored him more.
So it was by an enormous bit of very bad luck that Ran Eld Caylon on this particular morning, smarting still under his middle sister's continued elusiveness, came face-to-face with The Net.
The Net was Sinit's preferred news service. He had told her time and time over to use the house screen in the library for her viewing, but such was her passion for news that she would use Ran Eld's, in case Voni had prior claim on the communal screen. Mostwise, she remembered to return the setting to Ran Eld's Fund reporter. This morning, she had forgotten.
Ran Eld touched the on-switch and "Caylon" immediately caught his eye, as one's own name is apt to do. Frowning, he perused the story sufficiently to discover that the Caylon found thus newsworthy was one Aelliana, pilot-owner of Class A Jumpship Ride the Luck.
Ran Eld—carefully—sat down.
He then read the newsbit thoroughly, learning such items of interest regarding the pilot as her work upon the ven'Tura Piloting Tables at the tender age of eighteen, which revision was hailed as a boon to pilots everywhere. He learned that Pilot Caylon had owned her ship a bare relumma, having won it in a game of pikit; that her second class license, awarded a few days after her win, had been upgraded by popular acclaim and on the basis of yesterday's amazing rescue, to full first.