by Sharon Lee
“That one,” Lord ven’Astra said, “with the hair of his face almost touching his chest. He is a leader of some sort; the others listen to him. I would have you translate my words to him, young pen’Chapen; exactly my words. Will you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, meeting the Aus’ eyes calmly. He winked, and saw the man’s other eyebrow rise.
“Excellent. First, tell him who I am.”
“Yes, sir,” he repeated, and spoke in the thickest, most incomprehensible Aus dialect he knew.
“Do you understand me?”
“Y’sound just like my old grandpaw.”
“Excellent. The man with the brown hair, beside me, is a lordship. He’s instrumental in keeping you here, and if he has his way you’ll die, on camera, as a warning to others who’d invade Liad.”
“We had a contract,” the Aus said.
“He chooses to ignore that. He’s going to give me words to say to you, now. Remember that they’re his words, and reflect only his opinion.”
The Aus nodded, and Tom Lei turned to his lordship.
“I have explained to him who you are, my lord.”
“Excellent. Now, say this to him, and tell him to tell the others.” He took a deep breath, and began to speak, rather too rapidly for a translator.
“Tell him that their officers no longer seek them; their names have been written out of the rolls of their companies and their families have been notified of their deaths,” said Lord ven’Astra. “Tell them that their only remaining hope of honor is to confess before the Council of Clans that they are captured invaders of Liad, and pay the price named.”
Tom Lei repeated it, as near as he was able, in that thick Aus accent. When he was done, the man before him asked a question.
“Is he nuts?”
“Might be,” Tom Lei said. “What’s important now is that his clan’s powerful, and he wants all of you dead, publicly, to demonstrate his power and Liad’s might.”
The Aus glanced behind him, where the rest of his comrades stood silent.
“Two medics, two newbies, and a couple grunts,” he said. “Some invasion force.”
“Your lives are precious,” Tom Lei said, which was something of a risk, but he would think of something to tell him, if ven’Astra asked to know what he said. “I won’t let him harm you.”
“You got point, brother,” the Aus said. “I’ll tell ’em now, unless there’s something more. Any on your side speak Merc pidgin?”
“I think not.”
“Have to risk it.”
The Aus turned his back and approached the little knot of his comrades.
Tom Lei turned to Lord ven’Astra.
“If one may ask, my lord, how do you intend to execute them?”
Ven’Astra was staring into the den, at the prisoners, a look of revulsion plain upon his face.
“I had expected that the Council of Clans would, eventually, be willing to see the deed done, but I learn only this morning that the Council will not even hear us. Other arrangements are being made, even as we speak. These will know full Balance within the next relumma, and all the galaxy will know what it is to trifle with Liad.”
“Stand where you are, and place your hands on your heads,” an authoritative female voice commanded. This was followed by a definite snap, as if of a safety being thumbed off.
ven’Astra half-turned; the voice told him to stop or accept the consequences, and a form stepped out of the hall behind them.
She was dressed in the neat business attire of a qe’andra. Her bow was crisp and unafraid. Her weapon was military-grade, and held with confidence.
“I am Fantile dea’Starn,” she said, calmly. “In this matter, I represent the planetary council of qe’andra. You will come with me.”
“Where would you take us?” demanded Severt.
She considered him calmly.
“I would take you to our council chambers, where you will present evidence. There will of course be Healers present, to ensure that your evidence is presented in good faith.”
“Thank you, madam,” said ven’Astra. “You will only need these men here—” He nodded at Severt and Tom Lei. “These poor creatures are, as you see, imprisoned on the property of Clan Severt.”
“Mine, is it!” shouted Severt. He swung out, his hand diving into his pocket.
Tom Lei lunged, snatched the arm up, brought the wrist sharply against his own forearm, and watched the gun fly from suddenly senseless fingers as he continued moving the arm, up behind the old man’s back, heedless of his scream, and stood holding him.
“My thanks,” said Fantile dea’Starn, and looked to her left. “Proctors, please, do your duty.”
Lord ven’Astra lunged then, too late. One of the proctors swung something against his knee, and calmly caught his shoulder and snapped on binders as the afflicted knee buckled.
Tom Lei relinquished his grandfather to the second proctor, who likewise bound his wrists. He waited with the qe’andra, and the third and fourth proctors while the prisoners were escorted out.
“Thank you for your information,” Fantile dea’Starn said, with a small bow. “The qe’andra, and also Korval, are in your debt.”
She turned toward the den, where six pairs of eyes were watching the proceedings with very evident interest.
“Please,” said Fantile dea’Starn, “tell them who I am and what has transpired. Tell them, too, that Liaison Officer Oshiamo is on his way to them even now from the port. He was delayed in traffic.”
She used her chin to point at the comm on the third proctor’s belt.
“If they wish it, we may call him; I have his code.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom Lei said, and turned to address the mercs.
Aunt Manza was Severt now; the qe’andra had quietly overseen the transfer, and duly recorded it. Grandfather was confined to his rooms.
“When we return to the estate,” Severt said, “then he may find occupation that will risk no one.”
“But you, Tom Lei—advise me, what shall I do?”
They were sitting together in the evening in her office, the same office overlooking the back garden, for, as she said, it was no use to move all of her work to grandfather’s old office when she would only have to move it again, when the house was sold and the clan removed entirely to the country house.
“I ask,” he said slowly, “that the delm kill me.”
She blinked.
“That is hardly the Balance I should have suggested for such a service to your clan.”
He shook his head.
“Aunt, consider: Lord ven’Astra is High House. There are others of his opinion who know me. Any one of them may decide that my betrayal of his lordship deserves the true death. It is not wise to have a target living among the clan, for sometimes even skilled assassins miss and the innocent are harmed.” He gave her a wry half-smile.
“Notice that I do not dare speculate what terrors Grandfather would attempt to visit upon me!”
She chuckled, but protested anew.
“And, yet, for us, your kin, your clan—you have largely done good,” she said, and again he shook his head.
“I presumed to judge the delm, and I found him wanting. I laid a trap and caught him.” He leaned forward and touched her arm lightly.
“I am not safe for you, Aunt. How can either of us know that I will not do the like again?”
She laughed, and sat a moment, sipping her tea and thinking.
Finally, she sighed, and put the tea cup aside.
“You are determined that we mourn your loss, and I find that I must agree.” She paused. “Very well, I will do it. But, first, you will tell me how long it will take you to be safely off-planet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You, who have thought of so much, did you not think of this? If you are correct, and Lord ven’Astra’s co-conspirators wish Balance, I will not give them a clanless man as a target. Once you are off-planet, then will Severt publish its
sorrow abroad.”
He inclined his head, chastised, and pleased. Aunt Manza would be a good delm. She might even recover the clan’s fortunes.
“I can be off-planet within the next day,” he told her.
“Tell me when your plans are complete, and the time when your ship will lift. Now,” she said, briskly. “You will take all that is yours, naturally, including the clothes the clan provided to you. There is no one here who they will fit, and you will need clothes, wherever you go, and whatever you may become. You will, in fact, take anything that is in your room which catches your fancy. In addition, you will take the rings that your grandfather gave to you—”
“But—” He began the protest, and swallowed it as she fixed him in her eye.
“You will take the rings your grandfather gave to you. Rings can be sold or bartered, and if your delm is to do as you command, my child, she cannot send you off with your pockets full of cantra pieces. In the meanwhile . . .”
She rose and bowed gratitude, as he scrambled to his feet.
“Severt thanks you for your service, Tom Lei pen’Chapen,” she said, and straightened before he could return her courtesy.
She smiled then and opened her arms.
“Come now, child, and give your aunt your kiss.”
This he did, willingly, and hugged her until she gasped a laugh and called him a great lout, and reached up to touch his cheek, tears in her eyes.
“Go and pack,” she said softly. “I know you are eager to be away.”
He dressed in his leathers and sweater, packing his new clothes, though they were far too fine for a merc. He touched his vest then, and heard the crackle of paper from the inside pocket, and smiled. The print out of the letter from the qe’andra, detailing his part in the rescue of the captive mercs, and another, from Liaison Officer Oshiamo, which had also been forwarded to Headquarters, to be appended to his file.
Yes, he was eager to be away. Away to Headquarters, where he intended to sue for re-enlistment with these letters, and the proof that he would never be called home by his delm again.
He wanted none of the ornaments in the room; he packed the rings, promising himself that he would sell them at the earliest opportunity. Then he straightened and looked about him, for anything else that was his.
There, on the bureau, was . . .
He approached, and found three cantra pieces in a neat stack before a folder of holograms. A chill ran up his spine; he picked the folder up, flipped it open, and . . .
. . . there was his mother, younger than ever he had known her, a progression of images, a few with Aunt Manza, a few more with him, and more, now older than he had known her, looking weary and thin . . . and another of them together. She was smiling, and he was, and she was holding an untidy bouquet of wildflowers that he had picked for her.
He flipped to the next page, but there were no more pictures, after.
Swallowing around the tears lodged in his throat, he slipped the little folder into an inside pocket of his vest and sealed it up. He picked up the cantra pieces as an afterthought, and dropped them into his public pocket.
Miri Robertson Tiazan Clan Korval, aka the Road Boss, on alternate business days, sat in her designated booth in the back of the Emerald Casino in Surebleak Port and tried not to be bored.
It was tough. Bidness was so slow, she’d even read all the outstanding reports and bulletins, and answered a couple of not-exactly-burning inquiries.
She wished that she dared take a nap; she was tired, and her back hurt, though not enough to make her swear that she was going to find whoever’d thought it would be a good idea to get pregnant and dislocate their jaw.
She sighed. Maybe just a quick nap, with her head on the table. Couldn’t hurt, could it, and Nelirikk, leaning against the wall by the booth like he could do it all day—which, he prolly could—he’d tell her if there was company—
A step sounded in the little hallway just beyond her booth.
Miri turned her head.
Nelirikk straightened away from the wall, and put his hand on his sidearm.
A shadow cleared the hall, resolving into a fair-haired man on the short side of tall for a Terran, and on the tall side of tall for a Liaden. He was a bit paler in the face than your usual Liaden, the fair hair pulled back into a tail. Dressed in merc leathers and good marching boots. He looked tired.
He took note of Nelirikk real quick, and stopped where he was.
“I am,” he said, addressing both or either of them, “here to see Delm Korval.”
“Well,” said Miri, giving Nelirikk the hand-sign that meant let the boy come closer, “you found half of Delm Korval, though this is the Road Boss’ office.”
A Terran would get impatient with what would sound to him like plain and fancy nonsense; a Liaden would parse the information she’d just given him.
He inclined slightly from the waist.
“I beg your pardon. Is there a more appropriate time and venue to speak with Delm Korval?”
And that answered that.
Miri smiled.
“Happens things is slow this afternoon, so I’ll do us both a favor and switch hats,” she told him. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy Lee,” he said.
Well, so much for having him figured.
“You a merc?” she asked.
“Former merc,” he answered, and there was some bitterness there.
“What makes you former?”
He sighed, all of a sudden just looking weary of everything, but he gave her a clean enough answer.
“My delm called me home.”
“That’ll do it,” she acknowledged. “Whatcha been doin’ lately?”
That got a faint smile.
“Most lately, I have been suing for re-enlistment,” he said.
“In my day, there wasn’t any re-enlisting from the escape clause.”
“Yes, but you see, I’m dead, and no longer subject to being called . . . anywhere.” He smiled again, a little brighter. “It did go all the way to an All-Commanders Tribunal before it got denied.”
“Well, that’s something, yeah. So, what do you think I can do for you, Tommy Lee?”
He straightened into attention.
“I wish to offer my gun to Korval,” he said formally.
Like a thousand others. Miri didn’t sigh.
She opened the portable computer and tapped a key.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her eyes on the screen.
“Tommy Lee.”
She raised her head to glare at him.
“What’s the name you enlisted under?” she asked with exaggerated patience. “Or maybe you got an ID number?”
He gave her the number; she entered it, and . . . blinked at the screen.
“Tommy Lee, sit down.”
He did so, settling his pack neatly next to the chair.
Miri finished reading the file, then met his eyes over the edge of the screen.
“Been wondering for a while now what happened to the guy who pulled mercs out of a hat for us. We offered what help we could when they went missing, but by that point our help was worse than none, if you take my meaning. The mercs and the qe’andra took it and ran with it, but it was pretty much a dead end until some guy called up Ms. dea’Starn and told her he was going to be able to lead her to the prisoners.”
She shook her head, glanced down at the screen, and back to him.
“Looks like we owe you, Tommy Lee.”
“I came,” he reminded her gently, “to offer Korval my gun. If you’ll have it.”
“We might. Have to talk it over with my partner, naturally. Tell you what. I got another couple hours on-duty here. When’s the last time you ate something wasn’t bar rations?”
He blinked.
“It’s been a . . . while.”
“Thought so.” She looked at her aide. “Beautiful, take this man down to the kitchen and see him fed, then take him over to Audrey’s for a nap. Bring him back here
at quitting time.”
“Yes, Captain. I will call House Security for your back-up here.”
“Good idea.”
She returned to Tommy Lee, sitting quiet and maybe a little wide-eyed in his chair.
“You’ll come up to the house with me; have a little talk with us and with our head of House Security, see if there’s a way we can do each other some good. That OK by you?”
He swallowed, his eyes a little damp, maybe, but the grin this time was good and firm.
“Yes, Captain,” he said. “That’s OK by me.”
Guaranteed Delivery
Those who have been reading the Liaden Universe® novels will recall that, in Mouse and Dragon, Aelliana Caylon had determined to start a courier service. This she did, with her lifemate as a partner in the venture. Sadly, Mouse and Dragon had as its theme something other than the various adventures Ride the Luck, the Caylon, and her rogue of a copilot encountered as couriers. Obviously, this meant that any such adventures would need to be detailed in short stories.
This is the story of Ride the Luck’s fourth courier run.
Light bloomed inside the treasure room.
Discreet and faintly blue, it kissed the alarm console, the pearly security keys blushing delft.
Long fingers touched the shy panels, pressing them in a precise, rapid sequence. More light bloomed, opening a path across the carpet to a wall well-hung with twodee art.
The owner of those long, sure fingers, one Dollance-Marie Chimra, upon whom the Feinik society news had bestowed the name Alabaster, kept scrupulously to the illuminated path. As she approached the wall, light began to glow in outline around a single piece of art—a painting of a woman in long skirts, the shawl draped over her head framing a face ferocious with love, one arm around the waist of a man in a tattered uniform, braced on a crude crutch.
“Treasure of the House” was the name of the painting; the original hung in the salon of Dollance-Marie’s mama, the Gransella of Hamptonshire, on Albion itself.
Dollance-Marie pressed her right thumb against a particular point in the painting’s unadorned wooden frame, counted to ten, then folded both hands at her waist, waiting.