by Steve Miller
“Establish orbit!”
As one, they dropped hands, each spinning away from every, two-four-six revolutions, and came to rest, facing—the entranced spectators.
At the fore of them all stood his mother, considering him with a sort of distant interest, as one might inspect an insect.
“Check your board!” Cheever directed, and Pat Rin executed the required glide and change, aware of the weight of his limbs. It was hot, and his head ached, and, really he had every reason to be tire—
The omnichora shouted, notes streaming like lift beacons, and there was Miri next to his mother, and Priscilla approaching—
“Lay in coords!”
There was no map this time. Pat Rin closed his eyes. Cheever chanted the coordinates—a short set of three. Forward, back, turn left—
“Sign your co-pilot!”
Pat Rin extended a hand—and his eyes snapped open in astonishment as it was caught in a warm grip.
“Well done!” Uncle Daav whispered, under cover of the music, and—
“Clear your board!”
The two of them crossed, separated, and came back together.
“Lock it down!”
Natesa’s fingers wove comfortably with his. Shan, on her other side, extended his hand and caught Daav’s free hand.
“Dim the lights,” Cheever said softly, and the four of them walked sedately widdershins, three times, the ‘chora slowing, slowing, almost down to a proper round… “Open hatch.”
Obediently, they dropped hands.
“Go to town,” Cheever all-but-whispered, and the four of them turned to face the rug and those watching, as the ‘chora finished with a flurry and a flare—and the shouts and whistles began.
Pat Rin shook his lace out and reached for his glass. With Natesa’s connivance, he’d slipped through the crowd to the back room that had been set aside for the band’s use. Finding a bottle of autumn wine before him, he poured and sipped, and sipped once again before making the attempt to make himself seemly.
The dance—the dance had been an odd thing, to be sure; in memory not nearly so harrowing as in actuality. Had it gone on much longer, he had no doubt but that he would have joined Luken, Miri, and Priscilla at his mother’s side.
He paused, frowning, recalling the moment when he had met his mother’s eyes…
“Ah, here he is, keeping the wine to himself!” Clonak ter’Meulen’s voice overfilled the little room. Pat Rin sighed, and turned to face not only the portly Scout, but Luken and Daav, and Shan, Priscilla, Natesa, Andy Mack, Nova, Cheever, Miri—and Val Con, green eyes sparkling, the renegade lock of hair sticking damply to his forehead.
“Well met, cousin,” he murmured, and Pat Rin held out his glass.
“I thought the ‘chora was overextended,” he said. “Drink.”
“My thanks.” Val Con took the glass and sipped; sighed. Pat Rin considered him, doing a different sort of calculation.
“More clarity?” he asked, but it was Miri who answered.
“No complaints, Boss. Sent you a clue, fair and square,” she said.
He eyed her. “Hardly in advance.”
“But in advance, nonetheless,” Val Con said, with a note of finality in his quiet voice. “Come, let us not bicker. There is business to be done—and quickly, so that Clonak is not long kept from the wine.”
“That’s a touching regard for my well-being,” Clonak said, and suddenly pulled himself up straight, looking not so pudgy, nor foolish at all.
“Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval,” he intoned, the syllables of the High Tongue falling cool and sharp from his lips, “has stated in the hearing of pilots and of master pilots not once but several times that he holds a first class limited license under false pretenses. The pilot’s solo rating flight was conducted in a Korval safe-ship, programmed to fly, should there be no pilot available. Pat Rin yos’Phelium has stated his belief that it was the ship which overcame the challenges of the pilot’s solo, not the pilot.” Clonak gave Pat Rin a level look.
“These are serious concerns and the pilot erred not in laying them before master pilots. Therefore, and after consultation, it was agreed that a retesting should be done. The testing is now completed, and I call upon the master pilots present to render their opinions: is Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval a pilot or does he hold a license wrongly? Speak, masters!”
Daav stepped forward, black eyes serious.
“’Though he is perhaps not as conversant with the basic coord book as might be desirable, it is my estimation as a master pilot that Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries.” He fell back a step, cocking an eyebrow at Andy Mack, lounging against the wall. The lanky pilot shook his head, white hair moving softly across his shoulders, and took a sip of his beer.
“Been sayin’ it, ain’t I? Boy’s a pilot. Tell by lookin’ at him.”
Shan stepped forward. “It is my estimation as a master pilot,” he said seriously, “that Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries.” He fell back a step, and Priscilla came forward, then Nova, Cheever and at last Natesa, who made her declaration with the cool, emotionless intonation of a Judge, then smiled at him and stepped forward to take his hand.
“You did well, Pat Rin,” she murmured.
“In fact,” said Clonak, “he did. I say this as one who doubted the damn’ dance would work out at all, but young Shadow carried the day. So.” He looked sharply at Pat Rin. “In my estimation as a master pilot, having observed the whole of the testing, Pat Rin yos’Phelium is worthy of the license he carries and I’ll thank you to stop doubting yourself, you young whippersnapper! Between you and your lady mother, you’re a devil’s brew, make no mistake!”
Pat Rin blinked. “My mother?”
“It happens,” Priscilla said surprisingly, “that Lady Kareen is, after all, of the dramliza. She appears to have only one talent, which is rare, but not unknown.”
Pat Rin looked at her, foreknowing… “And that talent is?”
Priscilla smiled at him. “She may impose her will—to a very limited extent—upon the unwary.” Her smiled deepened. “And now that you are warned, you are armed.”
His mother a dramliza? It was only slightly mad, Pat Rin thought, considering the facts of Shan and Anthora in the present generation. But that one talent…
“I think you are saying that it was my mother’s influence that kept me from qualifying as pilot?”
“At first, boy dear,” Luken said, gently. “By the time you had failed two or three times, you were quite able to fail all on your own.” He smiled, sadly. “It was my sorrow, my boy, that I could never allow you to see anything other than your own unworthiness.”
Pat Rin blinked against tears; Natesa’s finger’s tightened around his. “You did so much else, Father…”
A small pause, and then was Val Con abruptly before him, raising his hand so that Korval’s ring gleamed. Pat Rin lifted an eyebrow. “Korval?”
“You will,” Korval stated, “arrange time to study with Clonak ter’Meulen. You will learn the core coordinates, and such protocols as Scout ter’Meulen finds worthy. You will come to your delm inside of one local year and submit to such verification as may be demanded.”
“Ah. And my streets? My duties as boss?”
Val Con smiled, and put his hand on his lifemate’s shoulder.
“You’ll think of something,” he said.
Pat Rin drew a breath—to say what he hardly knew, or perhaps he meant only to laugh. The opportunity for either, however, was snatched from him by Cheever McFarland.
“Right then,” the big man said. “Time to finish it up.”
The fiddler provided a sprightly, skipping little melody as they filed into the parlor and took up position on a clear space on the rug, Val Con leaving them at the last to tend his ‘chora once more.
Pat Rin stood in the first row of pilots, Natesa on his right, Luken on his left, Daav directly behind. The room was quiet, all eyes on them.
Especially Pat Rin saw, were Lady Kareen’s eyes on them, from her position between Audrey and Penn Calhoon. His mother’s face betrayed the faintest hint of boredom, as would perhaps be worthy of an adult who had been teased into attending a gathering of halflings.
The fiddler finished her tune as Cheever McFarland and Miri Robertson stepped up before the rest of them, mercifully blocking Pat Rin’s view of his mother’s face. From behind, the ‘chora began to whisper a faint line of a tantalizingly familiar song. Pat Rin strained his ears, trying to identify the music—then forgot about it as Cheever began to speak.
“I’m going to impose on your patience once more, here, if Ms. Audrey’ll let me,” he said.
In the first row, Audrey laughed, and called out, “It don’t strain my eyes any looking at you, Mr. McFarland! Speak on!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The big man bent a little at the waist—a bow, Pat Rin thought, Cheever McFarland style—then raised his voice so that it carried to the far corners of the room—and likely the rooms abovestairs, as well.
“Now, I know you all heard me say that pilots is competitive, and you might’ve thought that just meant that them who missed their steps had to drop outta the dance. But there was a little more to it than that. We was also looking to judge who among the pilots dancing had danced best, according to their level, their flight time, and their training. Miri here—you all know Miri’s partnered with the Boss’ brother, right? And when there’s a question comes before either of them, they got this arrangement where both are understood to answer? Makes the family business run smoother. Anyhow, Miri here’s gonna announce the winner.”
Whistles, hoots, and stamping filled the room. The drum tried to bring order, without success, until—
“PIPE. DOWN!” Miri ordered, loud enough to make Pat Rin’s ears ring—and silence fell like a knife.
“That’s better,” she said, m a more conversational tone. “I won’t take long. Just want to say that it’s the judgment of the master pilots we assembled here to watch that the winner of tonight’s competition is—Boss Conrad!”
More noise erupted, shaking the rugs hung against the walls, and he walked forward to stand between Miri and Cheever. Smiling hugely; Villy danced forward with a bouquet of dried leaves tied with bright ribbons and presented it with a bow.
Pat Rin inclined his head, received the offering, and stood while the cheering went on, his eye inexorably drawn to the place where his mother stood, silent and bland-faced.
She met his eyes, her own as hard as stones—and turned her face away.
Pat Rin took a breath — sighed it out, and looked up with a smile as his lady came to his side.
“Shall we go home, love?” she asked, slipping her arm through his.
He looked into her face, and then around the room, heard the drummer begin his count—and looked back to her.
“I believe,” he said, smiling. “That I would like to dance with my lifemate. There are still some hours until dawn.”
This House
It was spring again.
Mil Ton Intassi caught the first hint of it as he strolled through his early-morning garden—a bare flutter of warmth along the chill edge of mountain air, no more than that. Nonetheless, he sighed as he walked, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his jacket.
At the end of the garden, he paused, looking out across the toothy horizon, dyed orange by the rising sun. Mist boiled up from the valley below him, making the trees into wraiths, obscuring the road and the airport entirely.
Spring , he thought again.
He had come here in the spring, retreating to the house he had built, to the constancy of the mountains.
Turning his back on the roiling fog, he strolled down the pale stone path, passing between banked rows of flowers.
At the center of the garden, the path forked—the left fork became a pleasant meander through the lower gardens, into the perimeter wood. It was cunning, with many delightful vistas, grassy knolls, and shady groves perfect for tête-á-têtes.
The right-hand path led straight to the house, and it was to the house that Mil Ton returned, slipping in through the terrace window, sliding it closed behind him.
He left his jacket on its peg and crossed to the stove, where he poured tea into a lopsided pottery mug before he moved on, his footsteps firm on the scrubbed wooden floor.
At the doorway to the great room, he paused. To his right, the fireplace, the full wall of native stone, which they had gathered and placed themselves. The grate wanted sweeping and new logs needed to be laid. He would see to it later.
Opposite the doorway was a wall of windows through which he could see the orange light unfurling like ribbons through the busy mist, and, nearer, a pleasant lawn, guarded on the far side by a band of cedar trees, their rough bark showing pink against the glossy green needles. Cedar was plentiful on this side of the mountain. So plentiful that he had used native cedar wood for beam, post, and floor.
Mil Ton turned his head, looking down the room to the letterbox. The panel light glowed cheerfully green, which meant there were messages in the bin. It was rare, now, that he received any messages beyond the commonplace—notices of quartershare payments, the occasional query from the clan’s man of business. His sister—his delm—had at last given over scolding him, and would not command him; her letters were laconic, non-committal, and increasingly rare. The others—he moved his shoulders and walked forward to stand at the window, sipping tea from the lopsided mug and staring down into the thinning orange mist.
The green light tickled the edge of his vision. What could it be? he wondered—and sighed sharply, irritated with himself. The letterbox existed because his sister—or perhaps it had been his delm—asked that he not make himself entirely unavailable to the clan. Had she not, he would have had neither letterbox, nor telephone, nor newsnet access. Two of those he had managed, and missed neither. Nor would he mourn the letterbox, did it suddenly malfunction and die.
Oh, blast it all—what could it be?
He put the cup on the sill and went down the room, jerking open the drawer and snatching out two flimsies.
The first was, after all, an inquiry from his man of business on the subject of reinvesting an unexpected pay-out of dividend. He set it aside.
The second message was from Master Tereza of Solcintra Healer Hall, and it was rather lengthy, outlining an exceptionally interesting and difficult case currently in the care of the Hall, and wondering if he might bring himself down to the city for a few days to lend his expertise.
Mil Ton made a sound halfway between a growl and a laugh; his fingers tightened, crumpling the sheet into an unreadable mess.
Go to Solcintra Hall, take up his role as a Healer once more. Yes, certainly. Tereza, of all of them, should know that he had no intention of ever—he had told her, quite plainly—and his had never been a true Healing talent, in any case. It was a farce. A bitter joke made at his expense.
He closed his eyes, deliberately initiating a basic relaxation exercise. Slowly, he brought his anger—his panic—under control. Slowly, cool sense returned.
Tereza had been his friend. Caustic, she could certainly be, but to taunt a wounded man for his pain? No. That was not Tereza.
The flimsy was a ruin of mangled fiber and smeared ink. No matter. He crossed the room and dropped it into the fire grate, and stood staring down into the cold ashes.
Return to Solcintra? Not likely.
He moved his shoulders, turned back to the window and picked up the lopsided cup; sipped tepid tea.
He should answer his man of business. He should, for the friendship that had been between them, answer Tereza. He should.
And he would—later. After he had finished his tea and sat for his dry, dutiful hours, trying to recapture that talent which had been his, and which seemed to have deserted him now. One of many desertions, and not the least hurtful.
Spring crept onward, kissing the flowers in the door garden into dewy wakefulness. O
ppressed by cedar walls, Mil Ton escaped down the left-hand path, pacing restlessly past knolls and groves, until at last he came to a certain tree, and beneath the tree, a bench, where he sat down, and sighed, and raised his face to receive the benediction of the breeze.
In the warm sunlight, eventually he dozed. Certainly; the day bid well for dozing, sweet dreams and all manner of pleasant things. That he dozed, that was pleasant. That he did not dream, that was well. That he was awakened by a voice murmuring his name, that was—unexpected.
He straightened from his comfortable slouch against the tree, eyes snapping wide.
Before him, settled casually cross-legged on the new grass, heedless of stains on his town-tailored clothes, was a man somewhat younger than himself, dark of hair, gray of eye. Mil Ton stared, voice gone to dust in his throat.
“The house remembered me,” the man in the grass said apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Mil Ton turned his face away “When did it matter, what I minded?”
“Always,” the other replied, softly. “Mil Ton. I told you how it was.”
He took a deep breath, imposing calm with an exercise he had learned in Healer Hall, and faced about.
“Fen Ris,” he said, low, but not soft. Then, “Yes. You told me how it was.”
The gray eyes shadowed. “And in telling you, killed you twice.” He raised a ringless and elegant hand, palm turned up. “Would that it were otherwise.” The hand reversed, palm toward the grass. “Would that it were not.”
Would that he had died of the pain of betrayal, Mil Ton thought, rather than live to endure this. He straightened further on the bench, frowning down at the other.
“Why do you break my peace?”
Fen Ris tipped his head slightly to one side in the old, familiar gesture. “Break?” he murmured, consideringly. “Yes, I suppose I deserve that. Indeed, I know that I deserve it. Did I not first appeal to Master Tereza and the Healers in the Hall at Solcintra, hoping that they might cure what our house Healer could not?” He paused, head bent, then looked up sharply, gray gaze like a blow.