Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden)

by Sharon Lee

To stop a thief one uses locks. So had the wise women of Sintia done, and the sight of that silver-bright lock sent shivers of fear and indignation through Priscilla. what could she do now? She’d certainly starve, unable to get at what should be hers. And how dare they assume she stoop to stealing—

  Incongruously, she laughed, and it was a true laugh despite everything, one that took in all the ironies—

  She felt the sound of added laughter, distantly heard within her a voice new and thrilling—a male voice!

  “You’ve a chance to survive then, haven’t you? It isn’t always easy, but girl, Look! It’s only a silver lock, all curled about with magic signs that’d burn the hands off any believer still shackled to their cow-eyed vision—”

  Priscilla recoiled at that description—felt the distant voice pause—

  “—Can’t argue with you now, dammit. She needs help for this trick of hers and I—Priscilla, get a pin or a nail.”

  The voice felt different, even more distant—but Priscilla took one of Delana-who-was-Oatflower’s favorite stainless steel pins from her unkempt locker top and found herself in front of Moonhawk’s locker, lock held precisely thus—

  Her hands pulled on the lock expertly as the pin searched within; she felt her muscles respond to minute ridges the pin struck, felt her wrist twist this way while the other hand pulled that way and the pin slammed home and—

  Twang!

  “Done. Luck be with you girl, ’cause we can’t go beyond the door with you. Never give in!”

  Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins—

  She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she’d left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk’s ceremonies. What else?

  Her gaze fell again to the bright—wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?

  An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn’t catch the words. Still—When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.

  She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away—Silver! She looked at the magic symbols, shrugged her shoulders, and dropped the lock into the bag.

  “Good girl!” came distant approval. “Silver travels well! Go as far as you can!”

  She hobbled out as best she could then, the grief chants of the Temple covering the sound of her ungainly escape.

  Across Sintia the Priestesses waited for the proper hour, and then covered the carved Temple figures of Moonhawk in green cloth, signifying her return to the Goddess, this time.

  No one dares mention that the eyes in the statues continued to glow, despite the funereal announcement.

  No one dares mention to the Inmost Circle that Moonhawk still lives.

  So ends the 55th tale of Lute and Moonhawk.

  About This Book

  East Winslow, Maine November 18, 1998

  OUR NOVELS Agent of Change, Conflict of Honors, and Carpe Diem, haven’t been on the SF best-seller list, but they have reached a very persistent group of readers, many of them on the Internet.

  When we got on the ’net ourselves, our readers let themselves be known.

  “When,” they asked “will there be something else in the Liaden Universe?”

  This year, like last, lacks a Liaden novel. Next year, in February l999, comes our novel Plan B from Meisha Merlin. Still, our readers have asked for something for this holiday season, something Liaden. We hear you, and read our email. Hence, Fellow Travelers.

  In l995 we brought you Two Tales of Korval, stories written as we were defining the Liaden Universe. To Cut an Edge and A Day at the Races both dealt with recent Korval family history.

  The first two stories here also were part of our defining of the Liaden Universe, but these are set centuries before the core novels. These stories, Where the Goddess Sends and A Spell for the Lost deal with the role of magic in a world where technology is slowly being rediscovered. The third story— Moonphase—was originally not written for publication, but for our own understanding of Priscilla Mendoza, an active character in the later books But a story once written takes on its own life and necessity, and this story, too, is here.

  Thanks to you, the Liaden Universe keeps growing.

  —Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  Duty Bound

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe #3

  Pilot of Korval

  Dutiful Passage en route to Venture. Standard Year 1339

  MASTER PILOT VEN’DUCCI sighed and folded his hands on the practice board. By these signs, Er Thom knew himself to be in desperate straits.

  “I had heard from captain yos’Galan,” the master said quietly, “that you had achieved a level of skill equal to that of a second class pilot. Perhaps I misunderstood?”

  Er Thom inclined his head respectfully. “In fact, sir, I have achieved my second class license.”

  The Master’s eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. “Have you, indeed? Show it, of your kindness.”

  Now he was in for it in truth. A short series of keystrokes from the board at which they sat, and Master ven’Ducci could transform the treasured second class license into a mere third class—or into no license at all. such was the power of a master pilot.

  Still, it would reflect poorly on his melant’i—and on the melant’i of the Captain his mother—if he were seen to either flinch or hesitate in the face of this order. Er Thom neither flinched nor hesitated, but pulled the card from its slot in the practice board and held it out to his instructor in fingers that were, amazingly, steady.

  Master ven’Ducci received the license gravely and subjected it to a leisurely, frowning study, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Er Thom folded his hands forcibly in his lap and set his tongue between his teeth, lest he be tempted to blurt out any of the defenses of his own skill that were rising in his throat.

  Halflings defended before they were attacked, and he, Er Thom yos’Galan, was not a halfling. He was a pilot of Korval. Specifically, he was a second class pilot of Korval, the license fairly earned on the same day that Daav his foster-brother, boon comrade and fiercest competitor, received his provisional second class.

  Master ven’Ducci finished his inspection and laid the license on the edge of the board.

  “How came you by this?” Er Thom took a careful breath, and met the man’s eyes with what he hoped was grave calm.

  “I came by it at Solcintra Pilot’s Hall, on Banim-Seconday in the first relumma of the current year.” He had more than one cause to remember the day well, though very nearly a full standard Year had passed. Er Thom licked his lips, hands stringently folded upon his knee.

  “Testing that day established me as a second class pilot. Master Hopanik signed the license herself."

  ‘“Testing that day’,” Master ven’Ducci repeated. “Yes, I see.”

  Er Thom felt his face heat, his fingers tightening convulsively. He would be calm, he told himself sternly. He would.

  Master ven’Ducci picked up Er Thom’s license and held it in his palm as if weighing it for merit.

  “It is sometimes the case,” he said, in the mode of instructor to student, “that the exhilaration of the test itself will call forth heightened response from a candidate. The results of such testings are not invalid so much as misleading. It may well be, young sir, that your proper rating at this time is second class provisional. It is certainly true that your results at these boards, over the time we have been working together, falls significantly short of the results one is accustomed to receive from solid second class pilots.”

  Er Thom bit his tongue, refusing to beg. If he was a fail
ure, if he lost his license this moment and spent the rest of his life balancing cargo holds, he was yet the son of Chi yos’Phelium—of Petrella yos’Galan. He would not shame his Line.

  “So.” Master ven’Ducci glanced at the license and slid it into the pocket of his vest. Er Thom’s stomach twisted, but he sat still, and, gods willing, showed no distress.

  “I will consider the proper course to chart from this circumstance,” the master pilot said. “Attend me here tomorrow at the usual hour.”

  “Yes, Master.” Somehow, Er Thom managed to stand, to make his bow and walk, calmly, from the inner bridge.

  He was scheduled for dinner this hour, and his mother the Captain had made it plain during his first few days’ service that she rated moody, self-indulgent boys who skipped meals just slightly lower than Port panhandlers too lazy to apply themselves to a job.

  Er Thom swallowed and deliberately turned his back on the hall that would eventually lead him to the cafeteria. He could not possibly eat. He swallowed again, blinking back tears.

  His license. He has a second class pilot! The tests had not been in error! if only—

  If only he could speak to Daav! If only his foster mother, Daav’s true-mother and twin sister to Er Thom’s mother the captain—if only Chi yos’Phelium were here. But, of course, she wasn’t. He had neither seen nor spoken with her since the day he had won the license.

  He had always known that his true-mother would one day claim him to serve on Dutiful Passage and learn his life-roles of captain and trader, just as he had always known that Daav would someday leave home to attend scout Academy. He had simply been caught… unprepared… when “one day” became “this day,” and he was suddenly swept into his mother’s orbit, away from everything that was usual and comforting; his one cold joy the new license in his pocket, which proved him a pilot of Korval.

  It was no inconsiderable thing to be a pilot of Korval. Indeed, he had learned that it was no small thing to be cabin boy on the clan’s flagship, true-son and heir of Captain and master Trader Yos’Galan. The child of generations of space-goers, Er Thom had adjusted easily to his duties and to ship-life. He had adjusted less easily to the absence of his foster-brother, who had been within his arm’s reach for the sum of both their lives. Er Thom’s earliest memory was of gazing into his brother’s face, watching the black eyes watch him in return.

  “Good shift to you, young sir."

  Er Thom gasped, jolted out of his misery by the quiet greeting, and hastily bowed—junior to senior—to Mechanic First class Bor Gen pin’Ethil.

  “Sir, good shift.”

  The mechanic considered him out of wide gray eyes. “One remarks that it is the dinner hour,” he said delicately.

  Er Thom gritted his teeth and bowed again. “One also marks the hour,” he said, politely. “However, there is—a book—in one’s quarters…”

  “Ah, but of course.” A smile showed briefly. “A cabin boy must always be at study, eh?”

  “Just so,” Er Thom said and bowed a third time as the other passed by.

  Legs none too steady, Er Thom went on, and very shortly thereafter laid his palm against the plate set into the door of his cabin.

  He felt the scan crackle across his skin, then the door slid open. He all but jumped through, the lights coming up to show a stark little cubicle made smaller by the built-in folding desk, which was extended to its fullest, and overladen with books, readers, and clipboards. The slender bed was tucked under the lockers in which the rest of his clothing and possessions were stowed, the bed itself occupied by a long, thin figure dressed in a dark long sleeved shirt, vest and leggings of black space leather, booted feet crossed at the ankle, hands crossed over his belt.

  Er Thom stared, not quite daring to believe the rather solid evidence before him.

  “Daav?” he breathed.

  The black eyes opened, the dark head moved on the pillow, and the familiar, beloved smile infused the sharp-featured face with beauty.

  “Hullo, denubia,” he said, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. “What’s amiss?”

  Er Thom stared, the skin of his palm still tickling with the after-effect of the scan.

  “How,” he demanded, rather faintly, “did you get here?”

  “Oh, there’s nothing to that[“Daav told him. “I can show you the trick, if you like.” He tipped his dark head, mischief glinting. “Own that you’re glad to see me, beast, or I shall be inconsolable.”

  “Yes, very likely,” Er Thom retorted reflexively, then laughed and threw his arms wide. “In truth, I was just wishing for you extremely,”

  “Well, there’s a proper welcome!” Daav rose and flung himself into the embrace with a will. For a moment, they clung, cheek to cheek, arms each about the other. Er Thom stepped back first.

  “But, truly, Daav, how did you get here?”

  “To the Passage you mean?” He moved his shoulders. “I cast myself at the feet of an elder scout, who was bound for this quadrant.” Mischief glinted again. “Surely you don’t think I walked?”

  “But, the Academy…” Er Thom gasped, suddenly struck with a thought almost too horrible to contemplate. “You haven’t—they never rusticated, you?"

  “Rusticated me?” Daav looked properly outraged, which of course proved nothing. “Certainly they did not rusticate me! Of all the notions! I suppose you’ve never heard of term break?

  “Term…” Er Thom blinked, counting the relumma backward, and sighed. “I never thought of it,” he confessed. “But, surely, our mother…”

  “Save her leave, saving only that I find my own way out and back and that I arrive early to my first class at break-end.” Suddenly, Daav stretched, and put a hand on his lean middle. “What’s the nearest hour for a meal, brother? I’m not halfway hungry.”

  Well, and that was no surprise. Er Thom sighed and tried to look stern.

  “As it happens, I’m scheduled for dinner this hour. Perhaps I can convince the cook to give you a few dry crackers and a glass of water.”

  “A feast!” Daav proclaimed gaily, and slid his arm through Er Thom’s, turning them both toward the door. “Come, let us test your powers of persuasion!”

  * * *

  “TOOK YOUR LICENSE?” Daav stared, soup spoon halfway to his mouth. It was his second plate of soup. The first had vanished with an alacrity unusual even by Daav’s standards, and Er Thom suspected that the elder Scout had not been over-generous with rations. “Pray, what profit comes of taking your license?”

  Er Thom moved his shoulders and looked down at his plate. He had made some inroads into his own meal—at least he would not be called to book for neglecting his duty to stay healthy.

  “Master ven’Ducci feels my proper rating is provisional second,” he told his plate. “One… understands… him to believe that the—the strain of carrying a full second class is… interfering… with one’s studies.”

  “Rot,” Daav said comprehensively. “Does he think you’re to finish at second class? We’re both for master, darling—unless you believe our mother will allow us anything less?”

  “No, of course not,” Er Thom replied. Chi yos’Phelium had never held shy of telling her sons exactly what she expected them to accomplish on behalf of clan and kin, and neither Er Thom nor Daav could conceive of failing her.

  Daav had another sip of soup. “Do you fly live?”

  “Live?” Er Thom blinked. “I fly the dummy board on the inner bridge.”

  “A second class pilot, practicing at a dummy board?” Daav demanded. “What nonsense!”

  “Oh, I suppose you practice live!” Er Thom retorted, stung.

  “Of course I do,” his brother answered, with a surprising lack of heat. “It’s required.”

  “In fact,” he said after swallowing the last bit of soup, “I sat second board to the elder scout on the trip out. I don’t doubt but I’ll make the same trade with another pilot for the ride back.” He lifted his eyebrows, from which Er
Thom deduced that he had allowed his astonishment to show.

  “Surely you can’t think that the ever-amiable Lieutenant tel’Iquin would lift extra mass where there was no profit to herself?"

  “As I have not had the pleasure of the Lieutenant’s acquaintance—” Er Thom began, and broke off as a shadow fell across the table between them.

  “So,” said Captain Petrella yos’Galan, and there was a hard shine in her blue eyes that Er Thom had learned meant the entire opposite of his foster-mother’s twinkle. “Nephew, well I had a beam from your mother my sister, desiring me to expect you. When did you think you would come and register your presence with the Captain?” She inclined her head, in mock courtesy. “Or perhaps you believe the ship will feed you for free?”

  “Aunt Petrella, my mother sends her love,” Daav said with a calm Er Thom envied. “I regret that the desire to see my brother caused me to delay making my bow to the Captain.” He smiled one of his sudden, transforming smiles. “And I surely never expected the ship to guest me. I am able and willing to work my passage.”

  “You relieve me,” Er Thom’s mother said punctiliously. “And your passage is—?”

  “I have ten Standard Days for the ship,” Daav said. “At Venture I will barter for a lift back to Liad.”

  “And your mother agrees to this.” She raised a hand. “No, do not speak. I have her beam. My sister assures me that she reposes faith in both your abilities and in your oath to be early to the first class of the new term. The matter is outside my authority. Within my authority, however…” She frowned down at them both.

  “Er Thom is not at liberty. He has his studies and his assigned duties, which do not disappear because you have chosen to appear.”

  Daav inclined his head. “Nor am I at liberty, as we have both agreed that I shall work my passage.”

  Petrella’s lips bent in her pale smile. “So we have. At what work are you able, nephew?”

  “I might be of some small service to the cargo master,” Daav said. “I might also be put to use in the mechanics bay or at clerical.” He picked up his mug and had a sip of tea before slanting a quick, black glance at Er Thom and looking back to the Captain. “I can help my brother with his piloting.”