by Sharon Lee
* * *
“MASTER PILOT, I regret,” Casiaport Guildmaster was all but stuttering in distress. “Notification should have been sent. I swear to you that I will learn why it was not. However, the fact remains that no hearing has been scheduled. The case was adjudicated by three first class pilots, fault has been fixed and the matter is closed.”
Shan lifted his eyebrows, feeling the woman’s guilt like sandpaper against his skin, and she rushed on, babbling.
“Guild rule is plain, as the Master Pilot surely knows. Three first class pilots may judge, in the absence of a Master—and may overturn, in the case of a disputed judgement.”
“Guild rule is plain,” Shan agreed, in the mode of Master to Junior, which was higher than he usually spoke with another pilot. “Though it is considered good form to allow the Master pilot in question to know that his judgement has been disputed.
“Since I am here in any wise,” he continued, “I will see the file.”
The Guildmaster gasped; covered the lapse with a bow.
“At once, Master Pilot. If you will step down to the private parlor, the file will be brought.”
Shan inclined his head. “Bring also Pilot dea’Judan, if he is on-Port.”
“Pilot dea’Judan?” the Guildmaster repeated, blankly.
“Pilot Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt,” Shan explained, wondering how such a one had risen to the rank of Guildmaster of even so backward a port as Casia. “Surely you recall the name?”
“I—Indeed I do.” She drew a deep breath and seemed to recruit her resources, bowing with solemn precision. “I regret. Ren Zel dea’Judan Clan Obrelt is dead.”
Shan stared. “And yet I ran the license number through the port’s own database just before departing my ship and found it listed as valid and active.”
The Guildmaster said nothing.
“I see,” Shan said, after several silent moments had elapsed. “I will review the case file now, Guildmaster.” He turned and walked down the hall to the private parlor.
The file, brought moments later by a pale-faced duty clerk, was thin enough, and Shan was speedily master of its contents. True enough, his judgement had been set aside in favor of the cooler findings of three first class pilots, all of whom flew out of Casiaport Guildhall. Shan sighed, shaking his head as his Terran mother had sometimes shaken hers, expressing not negation so much as ironic disbelief.
There was a computer on the desk. He used his Master Pilot’s card to sign onto the news net and spent a few minutes tracking down the proper archives, then shook his head again.
The legal notices told the story plainly: Obrelt had been cruelly Balanced into banishing their only pilot and naming him dead. None that kept strict Code would deal with a man who had no Clan to stand behind his debt and honor…
It was the description of the circumstances surrounding death, fully witnessed by the Eyes of Council, that sent him once again into the public ways of Casiaport and finally to the Gromit Company’s shabby Mid Port office.
There, the luck was slightly out, for Pilot dea’Judan was flying. The man behind the counter, one Christopher Iritaki, had suggested he return early next morning and had promised to let the pilot know that an appointment had been set in his name.
Shan presented himself at Gromit Company slightly in advance of the appointed hour, to find Mr. Iritaki’s second on duty.
“I’m sure they’ll be back any minute, sir,” Ms. Atwood said, sending a faintly worried look at the clock. “They just went a couple streets over for a bite and a cup of coffee. Ren Zel’s solid. He wouldn’t miss an appointment for anything short of catastrophe.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Shan said soothingly. He smiled at the roster boss and had the satisfaction of seeing the worry fade from her face.
“I could fancy some coffee myself,” he confided. “Do you happen to know which shop the pilots favor? Perhaps I won’t be too late to share a cup with them.”
It happened that Atwood did know which shop, which was a favorite among the company’s pilots. “Only place on Casia you can get real coffee,” she said, and Shan would have sworn there were tears in her eyes.
A few moments later, possessed of directions to this mecca, and having extracted Ms. Atwood’s promise to hold Pilot dea’Judan, should he arrive back at the Hall in the meantime, Shan sauntered out into the sharp air and rumble of early morning Casiaport.
Though there was nothing in his face or his gait to betray it, Shan was in a fever to shake the dust of Casia from his feet. His evening had been spent delving deeper than was perhaps good for his peace of mind into the affairs of Casiaport Guildhall and a certain Clan Jabun. The information he uncovered was disturbing enough that he found he had no choice, as a Master Pilot who owed duty to the Guild, but to call Jabun before a full board of inquiry.
However, he thought, stretching his long legs and turning into the street where he would find the “best damn coffee on Casia,” that job of form-filing would certainly wait until he had Ren Zel dea’Judan safely in hand.
The coffeeshop hove into view on his left, precisely as promised. Shan checked his long stride, but did not approach the door, which was crowded around with people, all staring up-street, where a commotion was in progress.
Shan felt the hairs shiver on the nape of his neck. What was it that the Ms. Atwood had said? That nothing would keep Ren Zel from an appointment except calamity? The scene up-street had every trapping of calamity, including the white trucks and flashing blue lights of Casiaport Rescue, clustered in such abundance that the Port Proctor’s sun-yellow scooters were scarcely noticeable.
Shan stretched his legs again, moving quickly toward the hubbub.
He had no trouble walking through the cordon thrown up by the Proctors—he was never stopped by guards if he did not wish to be—and into what the sign by the door dignified as “Wilt’s Poolroom and Tavern.”
Inside—well.
All about were knots of med techs, attending the wounded. Elsewhere, Proctors questioned several unmistakable grounders who were for some reason wearing pilots’ leathers. Toward the back of the room, a figure was shrouded in a white plastic sheet. Not far distant lay another figure, blood a black pool on the floor. Shan touched a stud on his belt, alerting every Dutiful Passage crewmember on Port that there was a comrade down and in danger. Help was on the way. Now…
Directly before him, a Terran woman was shouting at a med tech.
“Hey!” she yelled in Trade, grabbing the tech’s arm. “There’s somebody over there who needs you.”
The tech turned, glanced along the line of the Terran’s finger, then slid his arm free, sighing slightly.
“I am not allowed to tend that one.”
“What?” the Terran gaped. “You just patched up four of the worst desperadoes I’ve seen on this Port in a long time and you ain’t allowed to tend a pilot who was wounded while protecting his co-pilot?”
“He is clanless,” the tech said, with a note of finality in his soft, Liaden voice.
“He’ll be lifeless if you people don’t do something for him soon!”
The tech turned his back.
The Terran pilot raised her hand, and Shan swung forward, catching her lightly round the wrist.
“Precisely how will being arrested for assault help your pilot?” he inquired in Terran.
The woman spun, pulling her wrist free, she stared at him; took a deep breath.
“He’s gonna die.”
Shan glanced at the still figure in its pool of black blood, noting the ragged breath, and the sweat on the pale, unconscious face. He looked back to the Terran pilot.
“Perhaps not. Just a moment.” He stepped forward, claiming the med tech’s attention with a genteel cough and bowed when the man turned.
“Good-day. I am Shan yos’Galan Clan Korval, Captain of Dutiful Passage.”
Recognition moved in the tech’s eyes. “Captain yos’Galan, I am honored.” He bowed, deeply.
Shan inclined of the head, then pointed across the room to the downed pilot.
“That person is one of my crewmen, med tech. His contract started today. I understand that you may not tend him, but my melant’i is clear. I require the use of your kit.”
Relief flickered across the tech’s face; he held the kit out with alacrity. “Certainly, sir. Please return it when you are through.”
“I will,” Shan inclined his head once again and turned, gathering the Terran pilot with a glance and lifted eyebrow.
“What’d you say?” she asked, following him to where her pilot lay, alone in the midst of all the official bustle.
“That I required the use of his kit in order to perform first aid on my crewman.” Shan knelt down, heedless of the blood, and began to remove the towels she had used to try to staunch the blood.
“He ain’t your crew,” she protested.
“Ah, but he is a pilot, and I am partial to pilots. Besides, he might well have been mine, if he’d managed to stay out of trouble long enough to…” His breath caught. The wound was bad—deep and ragged. Immediately, reflexively, he ran a quick mental sequence to relax and focus himself.
“Knife,” the Terran said, succinctly. “He took it for me. At least,” she amended, as Shan opened the med kit and poked among the various tools of the tech’s trade, “the first strike was meant for me. Got between me and the blade—I coulda handled it, but he’s so damned fast. He’d’ve been OK, except the bum leg went out on him and the hood was on him like a terrier on a rat…”
Shan had found what he was looking for—a suture gun. “Unpleasant, but effective,” he commented, fingering the settings. “At least he’s unconscious. We’ll just do a quick patch, I think—something to hold him together until we can get him up to the Passage.”
The Terran blinked. “You’re the guy the pilot was supposed to meet at the hall this morning.”
He met her eyes. “In fact, I am—and I am remiss. My name is Shan yos’Galan Clan Korval.”
She sucked air, eyes going wide. “Tree and Dragon,” she said, possibly to herself, then inclined her head, roughly, but with good intent. “I’m Suzan Fillips.”
Shan nodded. “Suzan Fillips, your pilot needs you. Please hold him while I do the patch.”
She did and Shan bent to the unpleasant task, sending up indiscriminate petitions to all the gods of mercy, that the boy beneath his hand remain unconscious.
At last the thing was done. He set the suture gun aside and sat back on his heels. Suzan Fillips took her hands slowly from the downed pilot’s shoulders and looked up.
“Tell me about this ‘bad leg’,” Shan said. “Had he been injured before today?"
“He was in a crash not too long ago and the leg never healed right,” Suzan said, meeting the eyes straitly. “You know about the crash—you’re the Master Pilot. I remember your name from the report.”
“Do you?” He look at her with renewed interest. “Where did you get the report, I wonder?”
She snorted. “I’m a registered pilot on this port. I used my card and pulled the file. Even Terrans hear rumors—and we’d heard one about a crackerjack pilot who’d been drummed outta the local Guild for not having the good taste to die in a crash. I read the reports—yours and the one they liked better. Tried to get the sim, too, but the Guild won’t lend it.”
The slanted white brows pulled together. “Won’t lend it? Yet you are, as you point out, a pilot on this port.”
“Jabun.” The voice was faint and none too steady. Both Shan and Suzan jumped before staring down at the wounded pilot. His eyes were open, a dilated and glittering black, the brown hair stuck to his forehead in wet, straggling locks.
“Jabun,” he repeated, the Liaden words running rapidly and not altogether in mode. “Not enough that they had me cast out. I must die the true death, if he must hire a wolf pack to the task. Dishonor. Danger! They must not find—” He struggled, trying to get his good arm around.
Shan put his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders. “Pilot. Be at ease.”
The unseeing black eyes met his. “When will they have done?” he demanded. “When will they—”
Shan pushed, exerting force as well as force of will. “Lie down!” he said firmly, in a mode perilously close to that he would use with a feverish child. “You are wounded and will do yourself further injury.”
“Wound—” Sense flickered. “Gods.” He twisted, weakly; Shan held him flat with no trouble.
“Suzan!”
She snapped forward, touching his unwounded shoulder. “Here, Pilot. I’m OK, see?”
Apparently, he did. The tension left him and he lay back, understanding in his eyes now. Shan frowned.
“You accuse Clan Jabun seriously,” he said, in the Liaden mode of Comrade, and thinking of his own discoveries of the evening before. “Have you proof?”
“The pack leader…”
He glanced at Suzan, who jerked her head to the left, where two Port Proctors were talking to sullen man in a scarred leather jacket.
“All right,” he said, in Terran, for Suzan Fillips’ benefit. “I will speak to the pack leader. Pilot dea’Judan, you will remain here quietly with your co-pilot.”
The glittering eyes stabbed his. “Yes.”
One of the Proctors looked up as he approached and came forward to intercept him. “Master Trader?” he inquired courteously.
Shan considered him. “One hears,” he said, delicately, “that yon brigand was hired by a House to deal death to a dead man."
The Proctor sighed. “It produces the name of Jabun—but this is not unusual you know, sir. They grasp at anything they hope will win them free of the present difficulty.”
“Just so,” Shan murmured, and drifted back toward Suzan Fillips and Ren Zel dea’Judan.
“I believe you,” he said to the wounded pilot’s hot eyes, and looked thoughtfully at the Terran.
From the entrance came the sounds of some slight agitation among the guards, who parted to admit a pilot of middle years, his pale hair going to gray, his leather gleaming as if new-made.
“It’s him!” shouted the man who had been the wolf pack leader, and was silenced by his guards.
A Proctor moved forward, holding his hands up to halt the newcomer.
“Sir, this is the scene of a death by misadventure; I must ask you to leave unless you—”
“Ah, is it a death?” The man’s face displayed such joy that Shan swallowed, revolted. “I must see for myself!”
The Proctor moved his hand as if to deny, but another signed assent and the three of them strode across the room to the covered form.
“Your Lordship is to understand that this is… unpleasant,” the first Proctor said. “The nose has been forcibly crushed into the brain by a blow…”
“That is of no matter,” the newcomer snapped, “show me!”
The Proctors exchanged glances, then bent and lifted the covering back. Shan rose to his feet, eyes on His Lordship’s proud, eager face, glowing with an anticipation so—
“What nonsense is this?” the man shouted. “This is not he!”
“I am here… Suzan, help me stand. Jabun, I am here!”
The voice was barely a croak, nearly inaudible. The bloodied figure gained his feet, more than half-supported by his grim-faced co-pilot.
“The dead man you want… the dead man you want is here!” Ren Zel gritted out, and Shan stepped back, giving Jabun clear sight of his victim.
“You!” Jabun flung forward one step, hatred plain in his comely face, then froze, as if he had abruptly understood what he had done.
“Speaking to a dead man?” Ren Zel rasped. “Out of Code, Jabun.” He drew a sobbing breath. “Look on me—dead by your malice. One death was not enough, one Balance insufficient…” He swayed and Shan moved to offer his support as well. Ren Zel gasped.
“You, who deal in life and death—you will be the death of all you are pledged to hold!”
A ga
sp ran through the room, and Shan felt a tingle in the close air of the poolroom, as if a thunderstorm were charging.
Jabun stood as if struck; and Shan heard a med tech mutter, “Dramliza, you fool! Will you play Balance games against a wizard?"
Ren Zel straightened, informed by an energy that had nothing to do with physical strength.
“Jabun, you are the last delm of your House. The best of your line shall lifemate a Terran to escape your doom. The rest of your kin will flee; they will deny their name and their blood, and ally themselves with warehousemen and fisherfolk for the safety such alliances buy!
“Hear me, Jabun! In my blood is told your tale—witness all, all of you see him! See him as he is!”
“Pilot—” began Suzan, but Shan doubted Ren Zel heard her worried murmur, lost as he was in the dubious ecstasy of a full Foretelling.
“It is Jabun the pod-pirate,” he cried, and Shan felt the hairs raise on his arms, recalling his own researches. “Jabun the thief! Jabun the murderer! Beware of his House and his money!”
The poolroom was so completely quiet that Shan heard his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.
Jabun was the first to recover, to look around at the faces that would not-quite-return his regard.
“Come, what shall you? This—this is a judged and Balanced murderer, dead to Code, clan and kin. It is raving, the shame of its station has no doubt broken its wits. We have no duty here. It is beneath our melant’i to notice such a one.”
“Then why,” came the voice of the man Suzan had identified as the wolf pack leader, “did you give us a cantra piece to beat him to death?”
Jabun turned and stared at his questioner, moved his shoulders under the bright leather. “Proctors, silence that person.”
“Perhaps,” murmured one of the two who had shown him the dead brigand. “I fear I must ask you to remain here with us, Your Lordship. We have some questions that you might illuminate for us.”
“I?” Jabun licked his lips. “I think not.”
“We have authority here, sir,” the second Proctor said, and stepped forward, beckoning. “This way, if you will, Your Lordship.”