by Sharon Lee
Gem smiled and held out both his hands. "Hello, Uncle."
The old man gripped the young one's hands and cocked a grizzled eyebrow. "Uncle, is it? Well, and it's true enough, gene-wise—cousins, aunts and uncles, all. Doubtless that's the long and short of why we're dying out."
"Doubtless," Gem agreed. "But tell me, do—in what way was I wrong?"
"Hah." Finchet stepped back, glanced over to tally Veln and Borgin's crew. He looked back to meet those bright eyes. "Garden crashed."
The eyes moved, flashing to Veln, then back. "You both look hale enough. Have we lost the whole wood?"
"Might well make a recover," Finchet allowed. "Given workers and an agreeable system. How-to's in the Book. Thing is, somebody's been adjusting this system already, Captain. Big dam up under the pole—saw it on the way down. Winds not how they ought to be, according to what the Book tells me, stream-flow—what there is—altered." He shook his head. "Don't look that good for the Garden, present conditions prevailing."
"So the operators of the dam must be persuaded to reason," said Gem. "Who might that be?"
"The Combine, that one says," Finchet jerked a thumb at Borgin.
"He says truth," Witness put in from the floor. Gem nodded, eyes gleaming.
"Why, in that case, I think we really have no problem at all, Uncle. We've already doubtless annoyed The Combine by taking their ship—" He looked up. "Have we taken their ship?"
Finchet fished the comm out of his belt and laid it on the table next to the book. "Not a peep out of this since we hit, but it took a fair bit of knocking about."
Gem nodded again and rested his fingers lightly against the comm-case. Out of his sleeve came a spider, waltzed down the back of his hand and onto the comm. It walked to the place where the power pack was seated and vanished inside the unit.
"Let us assume for the moment," Gem said, "that we have been successful. Already then the Crew of the Gardenspot is struck from The Combine's guest lists. How much angrier can they become over a little thing like a dam on a world that doesn't even belong to them?"
Finchet grinned. "Reasoning worthy of a Kristefyon, that. Your mother'd be proud to hear you. I recall me—"
But what he recalled was not to be shared at this moment. A big voice cried out, "They will kill the dam!" And a big body surged forward, falling to its knees between Finchet and the table, offering a knife high on outstretched palms.
"Captain Kristefyon, have me! I am Borgin Vo Riss of Wyalin Tribe and these are mine hunt-mates. I pledge us all to you, only send us with Finchet Gardener to destroy the Dam to be Hated!"
Elegant eyebrows lifted above astonished blue eyes. Gem reached across the table and took the offered weapon up in two hands.
"Rise, Borgin Vo Riss."
The warrior stood, face lit with a hatred akin to holiness. Gem weighed the knife in his hands, looked into the other's eyes.
"You know that I bear Shlorba's Smiter."
"I do."
"And you know, I presume, the old tales, which should be sufficient warning of all the ill that might befall you as a servant of the Trident Bearer."
"Let me kill the dam," Borgin breathed. "Trident Bearer, let me only come near it and know it is to die. I shall gladly die myself, and sing your praises to the goddess ever after."
"I may well hold you to that," Gem said, and extended the knife. "I accept your service, Borgin Vo Riss. But I ask that you allow each of your hunt-mates to speak for themselves."
One by one they came forward, then, fell to their knees, and offered up their names and their knives.
One by one, the Trident Bearer accepted their service and when he had gathered all of their souls into his hand, he stepped back and beckoned the child waiting at the door.
"Take these and let them bathe and eat and rest. Tomorrow, I shall send for them."
"Yes, Trident Bearer," said the child and swept the leather back from the door, stepping aside to let them pass into the hallway.
When they were gone, Gem looked again at Finchet and the boy. "You'll be wanting the same things, I expect. But before you go, perhaps you would like, Uncle, to step into the next room and visit—"
"I am here, Anjemalti," a resonant, beautiful voice said from behind him. He turned to see Corbinye, clad in the loose blue robe they had given her, one hand braced against the wall.
It was Veln who moved first, who cried out, "Aunt Corbinye!" and who flung himself against her, arms going tight around her waist.
She swayed, and leaned into the wall, put both arms around the boy and hugged him tight to her. The face she raised was beatific and she smiled at Finchet like a goddess. "Uncle."
"Corbinye. You all right, girl?"
"Mending," she said, and gave Veln a fierce, final hug before pushing him gently away. "Go and get fed. Rest. Visit us tomorrow."
"Likely so," said Finchet, cocking an eyebrow at his Captain. "You'll be telling us how to go about blowing up this dam then, I expect?"
"Possibly," said Gem serenely. "I'll have to ask the Telios what they know."
"Hah," said Finchet and went over to give Corbinye a hug and proper kin-kiss. When he looked again, there was the short green robe back again, or another just like it, holding the curtain aside and waiting for them to leave. He gave Corbinye another squeeze, flung his arm around Veln's shoulders and headed hallward, giving a nod each to Captain and to Witness.
* * *
He coaxed Corbinye back to her room and called a servant, as she asked. By the time he returned to the table, Number Four was standing atop the comm-link, purple eyes glowing.
He offered a palm and the spider clambered into it, then up his wrist and arm, leaving the skin at last to cling to the inside of the sleeve. Gem sat down and thumbed on "receive."
There was a small bloom of static, followed immediately by a voice: "GenerationShip Five, Class One, on cycle three of fifteen. Scattered Crew orient to second world perihelion and activate ID beacons. You will be tagged and recovered. Any who have taken damage, load assessments onto BroadCode, establish emergency measures and wait. You will be tagged and recovered."
Slowly, Gem put out a hand and hit "send."
"GenerationShip Five, Class One," he said. "Captain's override and scramble. Mael Faztherot to the comm. If she is not available, I will speak to—"
"Mael Faztherot here, Captain," her cool voice held an undercurrent of pure glee. "Your plan was perfect in every particular—success is ours! The mother ship is taken and the outriders scattered. We have only to pick up our blade-ships and complete refinement of the key codes." There was a pause, as if she heard her own exuberance and stopped to school herself. "What are the Captain's orders?"
Orders? Well, and there it was. He had hardly thought past the taking of The Combine ship and returning the Trident to the Bindalche. One plan had succeeded, but the second had failed, and he was caught here, surely as if the Vornet still held him in their intrigues, not to mention Finchet and his crew of Grounders, mad to kill the dam . . . He glanced over at the Trident; laid his hand upon the Second Book of the Telios.
"How fares The Combine?" he asked Mael Faztherot.
"Those we captured were put into a cargo pod and towed to Gardenspot, where they are even now unloading. The outriders are but momentarily confused by our attack. They will be back, Captain."
"Doubtless." He stared hard at the wall opposite him, weighing needs and desires and fears. Eventually, he touched the "send" button once more.
"Collect your ships, then do me the favor of making a pass over the pole. I need a map of the dam I am told is there. Download the information to Hyacinth's bank."
"Yes, Captain. And yourself?"
"Myself?" He shrugged, wryly. "I am detained rather longer than I had anticipated. The Garden took damage in descent and must be attended to—and it is not so easy to return the Trident to those who should hold it." He frowned. "There is something . . ."
"The Captain need only command," Mael Fazth
erot told him, and he very nearly laughed.
"On a planet called Henron, within the Renfrew System, there is—was—a library. If it still exists, it is in OldTown and the one who had owned it was named Shilban." He bit his lip, nodded once, though there was none but Witness and Trident to see.
"I want that library."
"Orders received and acknowledged," Mael Faztherot said. "Are more specific coordinates available?"
He closed his eyes, called up the grid-map of Henron in his head and read off the location of Shilban's Library. "If it is still there," he repeated. "Understand that we are speaking of bound books—in some cases, of scrolls and hieroglyphics. Many of them are fragile."
"I understand. The utmost care shall be taken in the loading and the books shall be brought back to you here." A small pause. "The Captain has further orders?"
"How goes the recoding?"
"The engine codes have been removed and replaced with clean codes. We are presently operating with the backup computer while PrimeComp's signature is rewritten. We have work boats out repainting the visuals."
"Good," Gem said. "When you are ready, call and I will give you coords for a courier boat landing. I have here several prisoners who should be returned—alive and hale—to Henron."
"It will be done," Mael Faztherot assured him.
"Good," Gem said again. "I have no further orders. Proceed with your necessities."
"Captain," she said, respectfully. "Acting Captain out."
For some little time he sat, staring at the comm-light, then finally moved a hand and turned the comm off.
So, then, he thought, the Ship will map the dam, and I will need to hear from the Telios what they know of the thing and if there is a Combine garrison there, then to get the Garden sorted, and The Combine will be back, no mistake on that. Defenses will have to be made. Perhaps the Ship can leave us outriders, and I will need to study the Trident, refine the operating system, study the Books . . . A hand gripped his shoulder gently and he gasped, starting so badly he knocked the comm to the floor.
"Anjemalti," her voice was soft, the scent of her as she leaned over him like the finest intoxicant. "Anjemalti," she said. "You cannot solve it all tonight. Come to bed."
"Bed." He looked up at her, the lovely face, the space-black eyes, the hair that had been newly washed and hung unbraided across her shoulder and over one breast. "Bed," he repeated, "is where you should be. To rest and regain your strength."
"While you worry yourself into a despair," she said with a touch of her old asperity. "Very good." Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "Come to bed, Anjemalti. I swear to let you sleep."
Desire washed through him, and a yearning near pain, yet still he hesitated.
"Go with her, Anjemalti," Witness said from his corner. "A man may."
Corbinye laughed and he felt her hand leave his shoulder, felt warm fingers sweep down the side of his cheek. "We have been given approval, cousin. What more would you?"
He laughed himself then, and pushed back from the table, and let her take his hand and draw him across the stone floor and through the curtain to her chamber.
After a time, Witness got up from his place before the Smiter, walked over to the table and bent to pick up the fallen comm-link. He placed it carefully beside the Book, then stepped into the center-space and did certain exercises to ease his body and clear his mind. When those were done, he returned to his seat before Shlorba's Smiter and began to order the beginning of this, the greatest of the Telios' most recent Memories.
His name was Anjemalti Kristefyon and he had been born a Chief of star rovers. While he was yet a child, event did move upon him, and the star rovers cast him out, to be caught by a master wise in the ways and intrigues of event. The boy grew and learned, at the master's behest, a new role and a new name, so event for a time was confounded. Thus, in respect of the master, whose wise trickery preserved the outcast for the Smiter, the tale begins:
His name was Gem and he was a thief. . .
DRAGON TIDE: ADVENTURES IN THE LIADEN UNIVERSE®
Dedicated to Dragon Lovers Everywhere
Daughter Of Dragons
Liad
The Grand Lake Townhouses
Solcintra
"All of these dragons have fangs, pretty words and comely bodies notwithstanding."
—From the melant'i play The Harusha Hillside Massacre,
by Norista ven'Deelin
"I feel I know of a citation that may answer this question for us," Lady Kareen said slowly, and with a thought spared to the tickets snugged safe in an inner pocket. "It is perplexing, but if I am able to recall the proper book . . . . Of your goodness, Scholar, a moment to think and remember—and pray do not let it be known that I sometimes consult my notes before I make my decisions! Please pour yourself a glass of the jade. I'm astounded that no one seems to have touched it, and now that they are gone it would be a shame to waste it. I know it to be rather the best wine out today."
"Thank you, Lady," the scholar murmured. "May I pour for you as well?"
"Indeed you may," she answered, her attention already inward, deliberately putting the ticket and its deadline from her mind, focusing with studied calmness on the matter brought before her, properly, by one of her oldest and most valued associates.
The graying gentleman moved to the side table while she studied the floor to ceiling bookcases with some care. Many of the books here were first editions, one or two were simply irreplaceable, except from within her memory . . .
Some people quietly told each other that she was the most influential person on Liad—carefully making the distinction that, while Korval's delm or first speaker might be the most actively powerful, Lady Kareen yos'Phelium's word was sufficient to certify or decertify an entire clan for a season's visiting lists; and her opinion that this or that person had failed, by reason of Code, to act properly in a certain situation might tarnish a life or even a Line.
In truth, there was no one with more accuracy or memory when it came to the Code—and if she might occasionally be gently—and properly—corrected by one who would some day be Korval Himself, all others came to her or to the books she had indexed and updated to settle vexing matters of procedure and melant'i. To the polite world of the Fifty High Houses Kareen yos'Phelium was the final authority on matters large and small when it came to proper action.
Indeed, the just-concluded annual meeting of the League for the Purity of the Language provided a potent example of the niceness of her judgment. Despite rumors that Korval had fled the planet—rumors well-founded in fact—Lady Kareen had been properly at home to the League, on the date and time long set. Those of the League who had come to her were, of course, persons of melant'i, who did not allow ill-bred curiosity into the changes in Korval's business schedules or her own recent notable absence from society to intrude upon the occasion. The agenda of the meeting had after all been fixed for several relumma, and it was treated with all the respect that it deserved.
If anyone present noticed that they had seen the ensemble Lady Kareen wore to today's meeting at least once before, that was something to be discussed and weighed later, at leisure—and in private. Perhaps Korval's fortunes were indeed on the wane. Or, as was more likely, the clothing itself might have been a reminder that the Code, and not fashion, was the center of the meeting. That Lady Kareen was subtle was not to be doubted.
On hand in the lady's capacious library had been thirteen Scholars of the Code—Lady Kareen herself and the twelve other contributors to the latest revision—six librarians, and some few others: the protocol officer appointed by the Council of Clans, two people-of-business, a nadelm of a clan off-planet, and a representative of the dramliz, who took notes and said nothing.
In ordinary times Lady Kareen might have arranged a dinner party or a tea to follow the meeting as well, but again, those who questioned her arrangements would speak among themselves, later. Indeed, the lack of servants had been the greatest obstacle she had had to o
vercome in this matter, saving only Luken bel'Tarda's surprisingly strong resistance to her necessity. She had considered calling in one of the two fill-in service agencies listed in the kitchen's low-tech directory, but even that would be depending too much on luck for her taste, with an unknown server taxiing to the lake in haste. Still, she had contrived—and all had gone well.
And now most of her guests had departed, and with them her sense that things were not really as bad as they might have seemed. The meeting itself had been normal and mannerly; the issues worthy of discussion. The out-world version of the Code, based on a centuries old and centuries out-of-date edition, had been neatly rectified, to the mortification of the overdressed nadelm, and the single typographical error in the latest edition had been decreed minor enough not to require an entire new printing. Several questions of taste had been properly put aside, while the major issue—use of three words which had migrated over the centuries from the High Tongue to the Low—had been clarified by perusing several volumes in her library.
Only this single guest remained now of the many, posing his vexatious question, the worth of which must be balanced against the upcoming departure time. Still, she thought, as the clock chimed discreetly from its station in the hall; she had a few moments more to give to an old friend.
Turning from the shelves, she received her glass from his hand, raised it, and—choosing a variation of one of the day's perplexities—smiled and said, "To our health!"
The scholar smiled, too, for the perplexity had dealt with the particular "our" that might be used by a master when talking with a student, certainly not indicating an inclusion of the student. . The scholar and Kareen had been in complete agreement on the matter, as they had been so often in agreement on similar matters, down the years—and so they shared a smile eloquent of long acquaintanceship—even friendship—and each had a sip of the lady's excellent jade.
"Let me understand your question, Scholar," she said now, glass in hand and gaze abstracted. "You ask, if a clan abandons a holding without properly informing all of the members, are the remaining members still of that clan—that is, may they inherit the clan title and name one from among themselves delm—or are they outcast?"