Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee

  Command Prime executed the code required of such success, and stood down. He—it may be that he anticipated orders by calculating a return course. The majesty of the moment; the importance of his victory, warmed him. The calculations . . .

  A power fluctuation interrupted the calculations. Between one nanosecond and the next, his connections to external power units failed.

  He initiated emergency protocols.

  The back-ups failed to boot, failed to reroute to tertiary; the fail-safes did not energize.

  The darkness on the void deepened . . . .

  It was, Er Thom yos’Galan Clan Korval thought, an entirely unsubtle letter.

  That one did not, in the general way of things, expect subtlety from Ezern pak’Ora only served to sharpen the point: Wal Tor pak’Ora was indeed dead, and his heir, unsubtle Ezern, was now Delm Ranvit.

  Wal Tor had not, perhaps, been a brilliant intellect, but had he found it necessary, for the best good of Clan Ranvit, to call Ban Del pak’Ora home from his long-term position as yos’Galan’s butler, the letter would have stated only that, simple and by the Code.

  Ezern pak’Ora—both unsubtle and foolish—allowed herself the luxury of spite. She detailed her reasons: that it was “improper” for one of Clan Ranvit to remain in the service of a House which had adopted “pernicious, outworld customs,” exposure to which could only “coarsen” the sensibilities of Ranvit’s precious child.

  That Ban Del was several decades the elder of his cousin-delm did not give him the right to argue or to refuse his delm’s order, of course. And perhaps Ezern had some subtlety after all, thought Er Thom, glancing at the letter once more. She had not specifically said that the pernicious custom which posed such danger for a butler of high training and a man of great good sense, were those brought to the House by Er Thom’s lifemate, Anne Davis.

  A Terran.

  There were those Liadens who abhorred Terrans; there were those who found Terrans nothing more than a comedy. Others found Terran commerce useful, and Terran coin worth spending. Progressive Liaden Traders took Terran partners in some markets, in order to maximize profit.

  But one needn’t marry them.

  Well.

  There was a knock at his study door. Er Thom raised his head. “Come.”

  The door opened softly, admitting Ban Del pak’Ora, wearing not the colors of Clan Korval, but a modest sweater and plain trousers, a soft bag slung over one shoulder. His face was carefully neutral, but Er Thom, whom he had served for many years, clearly discerned his distress.

  He rose, went ’round the desk, and stopped—waiting, which was his part in this.

  Mr. pak’Ora bowed, so smoothly that the bag on his shoulder did not shift; so deeply that one felt a need to reciprocate.

  That, of course, would never do. Melant’i held Er Thom upright until the other straightened, murmuring, not the formal farewell he had been expecting but words far more chilling.

  “Forgive me, your lordship.”

  That was the taint Delm Ranvit feared, Er Thom thought, willing himself not to shiver. There the coarsening of proper behavior. For a clan member to seek forgiveness on behalf of their delm . . . Delms did err, but those errors were not admitted outside of the clan. The delm was the clan—the face, the will and the voice of the clan. For one who was not the delm to call the clan’s will into question . . .

  Ranvit is correct, Er Thom thought. We have done damage here.

  He inclined his head, which was proper, and moved his hand, showing Korval’s Ring, that he wore in trust for his delm, as yet too young to take up duty.

  “We are all of us at the service of the clan,” he said, which was by Code and custom.

  Mr. pak’Ora bowed his head. “Indeed we are, sir.”

  “The House regrets the loss of your presence and your expertise. If a word from Korval might ever serve you, only ask.”

  “Your lordship is . . . everything that is conciliatory,” Mr. pak’Ora whispered, head still bent.

  And it was ill-done, Er Thom thought, to keep a man who had displayed only excellence in the service of Korval trembling not only on the edge of further impropriety, but of tears.

  “May the House provide transportation?” he asked gently.

  “Thank you. My delm has sent a car.” Mr. pak’Ora straightened, and met Er Thom’s eyes.

  “Be well, your lordship. It has been an honor to serve.”

  That was Code-wise, and also the small inclination from the waist before he turned and exited the room, walking down the hallway to the front door for the last time. The Code was . . . knotty regarding an escort in such cases. On the first hand, one escorted guests. On the second, one also escorted those whom the House did not welcome.

  Certainly, Mr. pak’Ora had been far more a part of the House than a mere guest, no matter how beloved, nor had he offended in any way.

  And who knew the path to the door so well?

  Er Thom turned back to his desk, his own head bent.

  Val Con yos’Phelium Clan Korval knelt on the twelfth stair of the formal staircase, the one with the Rising of Solcintra carved into the tread, and peered through the bannister.

  That he was supposed to be upstairs, packing for tomorrow’s removal to Dutiful Passage bothered him not at all. Indeed, he was quite as packed as he needed or wished to be, having taken his lesson from his elder brother, who had told him that all he wanted were a few changes of off-duty clothes. He would not be truly packed until Uncle Er Thom had approved the contents of his duffel, of course, but Uncle Er Thom had been all morning in his office, and besides—there was something not right in the house.

  Down the hall, out of sight, a door opened—and closed. Footsteps sounded, sharp on the wooden floor, slow at first, then becoming more decisive. Val Con stood and went down to the hall, waiting next to the newel post.

  Mr. pak’Ora was wearing ordinary day-clothes, a bag slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t weeping, but his face was set in such hard, unhappy lines that Val Con thought it might ease him to do so.

  He cleared his throat, and stepped away from the post.

  Mr. pak’Ora checked; inclined his head.

  “Master Val Con. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Mr. pak’Ora,” he said returning the courtesy. “I wonder—if you please—if all is well.”

  “Well.” He said the word as if it tasted sour, and sighed slightly.

  “All is rarely well, young sir. At times matters are more well, and at other times, less.”

  “Is this one of those times when matters are less well?” Val Con asked, and hastily added, lest he be judged impertinent, “I inquire only so I might offer appropriate assistance.”

  Mr. pak’Ora’s mouth tightened. Perhaps he meant it for a smile.

  “Matters are . . . in a state of change. My delm has called me home.”

  Val Con blinked. “But—” Why?, the first question that rose to his lips, was not acceptable.

  “When will you return to us?” he asked instead.

  “I fear—not soon.” Mr. pak’Ora hesitated, then dropped to one knee so that his face was level with Val Con’s. “As it happens, young master, I will not be returning. My delm writes that she has put my contract up for bid.”

  “Did you not have a contract with us—with yos’Galan?” Val Con asked, swallowing against his own rising tears.

  “Indeed, indeed. And now the contract is made null. It is beyond me, young sir; I can but do as my delm bids—as we all must. When you are delm of Korval, you will make like decisions, for the best good of the clan. For now—” He glanced aside, toward the screen next to the door, which showed a car waiting in the drive. “For now, I must go. Before I do so, I wish to tell you something that I ask you to remember. Will you do so?”

  “Yes,” Val Con said, slowly.

  “Excellent. You must remember this: I regard you. This decision—this necessity that takes me away from yos’Galan’s house—it is no fault or failing of your
s. And now . . .” He rose and settled his bag on his shoulder.

  “Now, I bid you good-day, Master Val Con, and fair fortune.”

  Val Con swallowed. “Fair fortune, Mr. pak’Ora,” he said, his voice husky. “Good-day to you.”

  Mr. pak’Ora inclined his head, and without an additional word, walked across the foyer, opened the door and stepped outside.

  Val Con stood where he was, watching the screen as Mr. pak’Ora entered the car waiting at the bottom of the steps. Watching as it drove away. And watching a while longer, biting his lip so that he did not cry—watching the empty drive.

  “Well, it’s settled then,” Anne said, in a bright, brittle voice that revealed her distress despite her careless words. “I’ll just pack some things, shall I? And come with you and the lads on the Passage.”

  “That might answer,” Er Thom allowed, playing the game. “One wonders, though, what will be done with Nova and Anthora. Or shall the clan entire withdraw to the Passage?”

  “Embrace free trade, sail off into uncharted star systems, plundering and pillaging as we go!” Anne struck a pose, then collapsed into her armchair, giving him a saucy look from its depths. “Which I daresay would appeal to the coming generation rather more than to yourself?”

  “I do feel,” he said apologetically, “that my plundering days may be at sunset. Nor have I ever been more than adequate as a pillager.”

  “And here I married the man,” Anne said, and sighed abruptly, playfulness deserting her. “That’s the crux, isn’t it? Again. They’re never going to accept us, those—people.”

  “Some of those people,” he corrected. This was a course they had flown before. Anne’s was a naturally happy nature; all he need do was to remind her—

  She raised her hand. “No, love, spare yourself. I know and treasure our friends, each and every one. It’s only that this—” She waggled her fingers, perhaps illustrating this “— this is a strike to the House, not merely a snub at a party. Mr. pak’Ora kept the house properly—don’t think I didn’t know it! I depended on him, he never failed me, and—now. Ranvit’s little game puts the Service Houses at odds, doesn’t it?”

  Oh, it did that, Er Thom admitted. There would be more than one delm up late into the night, toting up profit and risk, trying to guess which way melant’i would fall, and whether they dared step over the line Ranvit had drawn. Anne had never used to know such things, Terrans not counting Balance. She had learned to reason out the lines and motivations, and had over the years become proficient.

  He, on the other hand, had grown up steeped in Balance, melant’i and the subtle dance of alliance, the why and how of it settling deep in blood and bone. He need do no more than draw breath to know Ranvit’s piece of spite was, indeed, as Anne had said—a strike at the very heart of Korval.

  Melant’i depended upon right action. Right action and complete social Balance was the core of the Liaden ideal. More—melant’i called to melant’i, a truth so universal even Terrans had a true-say for it.

  “You will know the master,” Anne murmured from her chair, plucking the thought out of his head, “by the man.”

  Yes, precisely.

  Korval was wealthy, but wealth alone would not succor them, if they were seen to be in error. It was no great stretch, to think that Korval might stagger under Ranvit’s blow, and, staggering, show itself vulnerable.

  In fact, they were vulnerable, being so few in number, and lacking a proper delm to guide them—but thus far the clan’s legendary oddness had hidden that interesting fact from those who might wish to see Korval fall.

  Which it would not do, Er Thom vowed; not while he held the Ring in trust for Val Con.

  “Who might we hire from?” Anne asked, pulling him from this grim turn of thought.

  “I have instructed Mr. dea’Gauss to ascertain exactly that,” Er Thom said. He moved over to her chair, braced a hip against the wide arm, and smiled. She did not smile back.

  “dea’Gauss will have to be rethinking their ties, too, won’t they?”

  Now, there was a fear to chill one who had only reason to support her. Er Thom’s bones knew better.

  “Indeed, they will not,” he said firmly—and saw her relax against his certainty.

  “So,” he continued briskly. “For the short term, we will have Mr. pel’Kana to keep house for us. When I am returned from this trip, we will go over the list of likely candidates that Mr. dea’Gauss will provide and hire a butler. This schedule will return Mr. pel’Kana to Jelaza Kazone in good time to ready the house for the garden tours.” He reached out to touch her face, feeling the familiar, yet never commonplace, thrill of joy.

  “Does this plan find favor?” he murmured.

  She rubbed her cheek against his fingers like a contented cat, and sighed.

  “Truth told, I was never more than half-a-dab at pillage my own self,” she said, and sighed again as he moved his fingers to stroke her lips.

  “Do you intend to do something about these pretty promises you’re making, laddie?” she asked with mock sternness.

  “Indeed,” he said with dignity. “Do you take me for a pirate?”

  The penultimate battery stood at thirty-five percent. When it was consumed, and the last battery engaged, steady-state would begin. That was inevitable, a matter of architecture.

  And so would begin the slow slide into the real death.

  So far, Val Con thought, rolling over and smacking the alarm, the much-anticipated trip—his first as crew—had not been at all what he had expected.

  He had, for instance, expected to spend a great deal of time with Shan. Of course, he’d known they would both have lessons and ship-duty—Val Con as cabin-boy, and Shan as apprentice trader/cargo hand. But, still, they were going to be on the same ship, rather than Shan going away on the Passage with Uncle Er Thom to learn his life-work as a trader, while Val Con stayed behind on Liad with Mother and Nova and Anthora and his tutors.

  Instead, and if it weren’t impossible, he felt that he and his brother were seeing even less of each other since they’d left Liad. They’d barely had time to wave at each other at shift change and meal breaks.

  Val Con swung out of his bunk and headed for the ’fresher.

  Not that he had much time to miss Shan, or home, or the cats, or even long rambles in the woods. Uncle Er Thom—Master Trader Er Thom yos’Galan, as his melant’i was aboard Dutiful Passage—Uncle Er Thom had a great many more expectations of his cabin-boy than he had ever had of his foster son. Val Con worked on-shifts, off-shifts, split-shifts, half-shifts—and every shift he worked, so did Uncle Er Thom, looking not the least bit tired, which naturally put Val Con on his mettle. It also gave him an even greater appreciation of Merlin and the other cats, who had taught him the value of even a five-minute nap.

  Scrubbed and dried, he exited the ’fresher, pulled on his uniform pants, and went over to his desk to tap up the daily queue.

  For all that he was busy, he had not so much as set foot outside the Passage since boarding at Solcintra. He’d also supposed that he would see new ports, hear new languages, and have, if not adventures, then at least interesting times.

  Shirt on and decently sealed, he looked again to the screen. There was a letter from his sister Nova, who was ’prenticed to Cousin Luken last relumma and this—and also his duty-list.

  He glanced at the time, bit his lip, tapped up Nova’s letter, and bent to pull on his boots.

  Nova’s letters were never very long. This one was shorter than most, and rather warmer, too. He read it twice, his own temper rising, and started as the clock chimed the pre-shift warning. Catching his breath, he put the letter aside to answer later, and brought up the duty roster.

  This shift, he was to meet Uncle Er Thom at the shuttlebay in—good gods, he was late!

  He grabbed his jacket and ran.

  The penultimate battery’s power had reached twenty-five percent. Twenty-five percent on the last battery but one. The fact was noted, logged. Logg
ing triggered a dumb program, long ago set in place against just this moment of decision.

  The program waked a safe mode protocol. The safe mode protocol performed a self-test.

  The power drain increased, very slightly. This was also noted and logged.

  Self-test completed, the safe-mode protocol booted, achieved stability, and closed a series of loops.

  “While I am gratified that you choose to show a clean face to the port of Pomerloo,” Uncle Er Thom said when he arrived, panting, at the shuttlebay. “I cannot help but wonder what might have happened to your comb.”

  Val Con bit his lip. “Your pardon, sir; I was . . . beguiled.”

  Uncle Er Thom’s eyebrows rose.

  “Beguiled? You interest me. What might you find so beguiling that a basic tenet of grooming entirely escaped your notice?”

  “Forgive me,” Val Con murmured.

  “Certainly I must, eventually. But in the meanwhile, Val Con—the question?”

  “Yes, sir. I had a letter from my sister Nova, which I read while dressing. I only opened the duty-list after, whereupon I discovered . . .” He hesitated, not wanting to seem to stand any deeper in error than was true.

  “Whereupon you discovered that you were about to be late, and ran. Very good. Duty was foremost in your mind, even before vanity. I approve, and succor you.” Uncle Er Thom slipped a comb from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Val Con, who received it with a bow.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank me by using it to good effect,” his uncle told him. “In the meanwhile, I will hear the excuse of my second tardy escort.”

  Hardly had he finished speaking than the bay door snapped open to reveal Shan, striding briskly, but by no means running, his pale hair neat, and his shirt tucked in. Val Con sighed and turned his face toward the shuttle, plying the comb with a will while straining to hear what was being said.

  Sharp as his ears were, all he heard was “Ken Rik”—who was cargo master and Shan’s immediate supervisor on this trade trip—and “called ahead.”