Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 3

by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller

  Fallan closed his mouth around the Words, his face showing white against the black beard.

  “What will you give, friend Fallan, for this object?”

  “Your life.” Fallan forced a smile. “Lay it down and go free.”

  The little man laughed. “Come now, am I a fool? Holding this, I think I might walk with impunity anywhere in this keep. Name another price.”

  “What might any man—wizard or no—give the King of the Cats?”

  “Fair words. Perhaps you do not value it as highly as I had thought.”

  Fallan shrugged. “It has some small worth. Approximately equal to your life, as I have said. But another may always be crafted.”

  “So?” Both brows were raised. “It seems I chose a poor hostage. Forgive me.” He let the crystal go.

  Fallan cried out, Words forming of themselves. The crystal’s descent was arrested a scant inch from the slate floor. Sweating heavily, the mage caused it to waft to safety and wedge itself between two jewel-encrusted spell books.

  Shaking, he turned to deal with the King of the Cats.

  But the small man had slid from his perch and was busily pulling jars from the poisons cupboard, mixing the contents of one with another, indiscriminately, disastrously.

  “Begone, you misbegotten creature!” screamed Fallan, lost to all but his rage. “Begone from here and never come again! I ward you from this world forever. Begone, begone, be—”

  Val Con saw the balled lightning leap from the magician’s staff, and stilled his impulse to dodge. He felt heat enter him, expand him, begin to unravel him—

  Miri!

  “Val Con!”

  He blinked, felt the heat of that which pursued him and jumped, slamming into Miri, covering her with his body as they rolled, shielding her from the—

  FLASH!

  Poof . . .

  . . . BOOM!

  After a time he moved, cautiously, and heard the tinkle and crunching of glass.

  “Val Con?” a small voice murmured in the vicinity of his left ear.

  “Yes.”

  “Can we get up now?”

  “I think so.” He shifted; knelt. “Yes.”

  “Good.” She knelt as well, combing fingers through wild red hair as she surveyed the room. “Some party. Wish I remembered more of it.”

  He grinned and waved a hand at the remnants of the platform. “What was that?”

  “A funnel. To get you back. I can show you the math.” She cocked a suspicious gray eye. “Worked.”

  “So it did,” he said, and reached out to touch her face.

  Some time later, when they were both on the edge of sleep, Miri shifted next to him and murmured.

  “Val Con-husband?”

  “Yes, cha’trez.”

  “I bought the hyatt.”

  “So? Did you fire the manager?”

  She grinned. “Naw. I thought about it. Then I thought that one of the changes I’ll be making is to open up a wing especially for mercenaries. Figured I’d put him in charge of that.”

  “Not too bad a notion,” he conceded, curling closer and nestling his cheek against her hair. “I’m sure he’ll learn quite rapidly.”

  Kinzel stretched and smiled at the setting Moon. Cats, curious about surroundings, about sounds, about glitters and gleamings in the pre-dawn sky, had wandered off, by ones, twos and sevens. His staff purred contentedly in his hand.

  From the west, a breeze arose, telling tales of the ocean, hinting of the further shore; of dragons, perhaps, or of a King reunited with his Queen.

  Kinzel smiled and stepped out—westward, for lack of a reason to walk in another direction, and whistling.

  All was Right with the world.

  Kin Ties

  “Whatever happened to?” Yes—not just a few stories in the Liaden Universe® series came from just that question. Sometimes it comes at a convention, or in an email, and sometimes it comes not from a reader, but from one of us. Just because we write an initial story doesn’t mean we automatically understand all of the ramifications, and sometimes the only way to properly decide what happens next is to . . . physically write what happens next.

  In this case we’d posited a pilot surviving—against many odds—the crash of a spaceship. The follow-on to that crash had included the interference of Korval in an off-world Balance, and the eventual life-mating of that pilot into Korval. But there were unsettled questions, things we needed to know because our characters needed to know. This is that story—it couldn’t be left undone because, after all, it involved Balance, Clan, and Kin Ties.

  It was the old dream: Herself, the gun heavy in her hand, Grandfather a weight and a wall at her back. Before her, the man who had coldly slain her mother. He looked as his picture, that Grandfather had her study until she knew every line of his face, and would mistake him for no other pilot, on Casiaport or elsewhere.

  In truth, it was not an ill-cast face. One could hardly credit that so clear a countenance belonged to a monster—and yet it was so. Grandfather had taught her.

  Indeed, indeed, Ren Zel dea’Judan was every inch a monster, no matter how direct his gaze, or sweetly shaped his mouth. For this man, having murdered Elsu Meriandra Clan Jabun, then wrongly called the attention of the portmaster’s office down upon Grandfather’s business, an action that had cast Jabun from its rightful place among Casia’s High Houses—and then? The Balance for this string of murderous mischief? What was brought down upon the head of Ren Zel dea’Judan for his sins against Clan Jabun, and Grandfather, too?

  Why, that he should achieve a berth, and rank, on a merchant ship out of Liad itself, while she and Grandfather, the last of Clan Jabun proud enough to bear the name, lived pinched and retired, with neither associates nor allies to support them.

  The root of it all was Ren Zel dea’Judan, and for the wrongs he had visited, unprovoked, upon Jabun, he must die.

  That had been Grandfather’s judgment, speaking as Delm Jabun.

  It was Balance; it was hers to carry and commit, and here he stood before her, trembling as she held the gun, with Grandfather at her back. There would be no failure of her will. She would do her duty. There would, at last, be Balance.

  . . . she woke before she pulled the trigger.

  She always woke before she pulled the trigger, muscles tight, face wet, stomach roiling.

  Carefully, so as not to wake the others, she slid out of bed, opened the window and stepped out onto the catwalk.

  The hatch came down behind them, locking out the rest of the planet, and most particularly Delm Flenik, who desired what benefit an alliance with Korval might yet bring her clan. Ah, yes, the ether rang with her desire. And clashed, discordant, with her caution. She would meet with Korval’s emissaries—the silly sister and her irregular lifemate—that much, for profit, she did risk. But to extend proper courtesy—to offer a guesting, or even so little as a formal meal with the clan entire? No, Flenik was not so rash as that!

  “Never tell me you wanted another formal dinner out-clan,” Anthora exclaimed, snatching the thought out of his head, as was her wont. “Had I not understood you to be entirely bankrupt in your account of polite nothings?”

  She spun there in the hallway before him, jeweled pins askew among lively dark curls. He would have blamed this state of sudden charming disorder on the brisk breeze that had assaulted them on the gantry, did he not know his lady rather better than that.

  His lady. In unlikely fact, as beautiful and fey as she stood before him, silver eyes smiling in a roguish face, Anthora yos’Galan Clan Korval was his lady. His lifemate. Recalling it still took his breath.

  “Because we have been together so long,” Anthora said, tipping her head.

  “Because it seems simultaneously that we have been together since space was born, and have only this moment met.”

  She laughed. “There, now—that’s pretty said! Perhaps we should have insisted upon dinner, after all!”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Should I
have made Flenik a like compliment?”

  “No, that would never do, would it?” she answered, suddenly serious. “Father would have said that we must honor her care for Flenik’s reputation and resources.”

  “And so we ought.” Anthora’s father had followed his lifemate into the long peace years before Ren Zel dea’Judan had stumbled into her life. As represented by his children, Er Thom yos’Galan had been a man of good sense and stern propriety; and—as a Master Trader was unlikely to be an idiot—a strong force for Korval’s continued prominence among Liad’s High Houses. The lesson that one must respect a delm’s care for the clan was sound, but—

  “Flenik cannot hope to keep the alliance a secret from her neighbors,” Ren Zel pointed out. “If our visit escaped notice, the flow of goods sealed with the Tree-and-Dragon through Flenik’s warehouses surely will not—and where stands prudence, then?”

  “Where it has always stood, I expect,” Anthora said, “somewhere between the shadow and the shade. Recall that our mission is to reaffirm existing ties, nor has Flenik been the most timid we have encountered.”

  No, there was that, Ren Zel allowed. He had permitted Flenik’s disrespect of Anthora to put his temper into disarray.

  “Surely the lady might be permitted her private thoughts,” Anthora murmured, coming back down the short hall to put her hand on his sleeve. “We have grown easy between us, sharing this thought and that until speech becomes cumbersome. But we must recall that Flenik showed no disrespect, and if she failed of an invitation to guest, or to dine, proper courtesy to a trade partner does not demand either.”

  That was also true. He sighed and walked with her to the piloting chamber. Happily, this visit to Flenik was the last of those their delm had set them; soon, they would be on the way to the clan’s new home on the world Surebleak, which he and his lifemate had scarcely seen. It was, indeed, the clan’s hasty removal from Liad, in compliance with orders from the Council of Clans, that had made necessary the mission he and Anthora had just accomplished. Korval’s outworld trade partners, having heard of their banishment, as had, indeed, all the galaxy, needed to be assured in person by one of the Line Direct that Korval not only intended to honor long-standing associations and agreements, but was able to honor them.

  That they had not succeeded in soothing the fears of everyone the delm had bid them visit—well, and how might they have dealt with Venari, who had instructed the doorkeeper to deny them, and had the poor child hand out through the hatch an envelope containing contracts of reversion.

  Venari the timid, Anthora had dubbed him. The reversions had also revealed a man desperately frightened—of the Council, or of Korval—or, possibly, of both.

  It’s of no mind, Anthora had said. Val Con will send Shan to mend it, and you know he will find success, beloved.

  Ren Zel watched his lifemate lean over the copilot’s board, checking for messages. He sighed again, and loosened the collar of his formal shirt. It would be good, he thought, to exchange finery for a sweater and ship clothes—or leathers, if Anthora fancied dinner on the port this eve.

  “Let us dine from supplies,” she said, her attention seemingly still on the copilot’s board. “So we may be ready to lift for Casiaport, if Tower finds us an early slot.”

  Ren Zel froze, fingers at his collar.

  “Casiaport,” he said, hearing his voice flat with old pain. “Surely we will not.”

  Anthora looked at him over her shoulder, the quick movement dislodging at least one pin; he heard it strike the decking—silver to steel.

  “Surely we shall, for Korval has desired it,” she answered, raising her eyebrows as if perfect propriety was her nearest kin.

  He took a breath. “As much as one dislikes to speak ill of the delms—”

  “Oh, do by all means speak ill of the delms!” Anthora interrupted him. “But I beg you not to waste your genius! Wait until we are with them again, for surely you will find none who will agree with you more!”

  It was heart-stopping, to hear one speak so of the delm—of their delm. The delm was the face and the voice of the clan. The delm husbanded the clan’s resources—those resources including the life of every member of the clan. It was for the delm to order, and the clan member so ordered to provide. Without obedience to the delm—without every clan member striving always for the best good of the clan—all would be chaos and barbarism.

  And yet—

  “I know that the delm wishes to do honor,” Ren Zel, forcing himself to speak evenly. “However, I believe that—I believe that, in this instance, the delm has failed to understand how . . . difficult it is for those who are not of Korval—those who have—those who have known only one world, one Code—who have not seen so much of odd custom as might a scout, or a soldier, a trader—even a pilot—“ He paused, the better to weigh his words. Anthora’s levity aside, it was the delm of whom he spoke.

  Anthora had straightened, and stood watching him seriously from silver eyes, her hands tucked behind her back like a schoolgirl receiving a lesson from her tutor.

  She said nothing; the ether conveyed the quality of her waiting. Patiently waiting.

  Goaded, Ren Zel continued, perhaps, just a little, snappish.

  “The delm fails to comprehend that there are those who will turn their face from profit rather than stand against custom. There is no choice in this offer Korval desires us to bring to Obrelt. The dead do not return to the world, even to accommodate Korval.”

  Bang!

  It was not an actual explosion that assaulted him, he thought—not that. What struck him was only the manifestation of Anthora’s anger on the ether.

  “There are no dead men here!” she shouted. Her hair was stirring; he heard more pins strike music from the decking, and drew a breath.

  “Beloved, you may say so, and I am dismayed to anger you, yet the truth—”

  He scarcely saw her cross the deck. He felt his face taken, not gently, between her two palms, and her lips against his, hard, lewd, and desirous, waking his body with a shout and shiver, his blood coming at once to a boil, and almost he spent himself there and then.

  Anthora released him as suddenly as she had snatched him, and stepped back.

  “Now,” she said, hands on hips, and silver eyes snapping. “Produce me this dead man.”

  “Custom,” he answered, his voice thin and breathless. He dragged air deep into his lungs. “If you deliver me another such kiss, beloved, well you may produce a dead man.”

  Her lips quirked, but her eyes remained stormy.

  “As you told me the story, your delm diced against custom at your death—winning you your license and a two-cantra stake.”

  “So he did, and very bold he was,” Ren Zel answered. “But that does not mean Obrelt will—or can—abandon all propriety. We—they!—are shopkeepers; their strength—the reason that other clans hire them to keep their books, order their inventory, and manage their staffs—is that they do observe every propriety and are nothing out of the way.” He took another breath, which he sighed out, suddenly tired and wistful.

  “The business and the purpose of the clan was twice wholly disrupted by myself. I would, if I could, allow them their peace and their true course. I will say these things to Korval, and accept whatever comes of it.”

  “As if Val Con—or Miri!—would lash you to the Tree and lay you three stripes for disobedience,” Anthora said, and sighed, herself.

  “It shames me,” she said softly, and he shivered, as her sadness brushed him. “Shames me, that I have won such a jewel as you are for myself, and for Korval, with no cost, and no honor paid. If it had been Obrelt that had cast you aside of their own will and spite, I would feel differently. But you were stolen from them, cruelly—”

  “The man had lost a daughter,” he murmured. “The heart of his life. Allow a father grief.”

  “I allow a father all he might require to comfort him, in such circumstance,” Anthora said sharply. “But delms are held to higher standa
rds.”

  There was, Ren Zel thought, no denying that. The delm, indeed, ought to reflect what was best and most honorable of the clan, as a moon, reflecting the glory of its sun. Jabun had used the power and position of his clan to bully and, yes, steal from those less moneyed, and lower-placed. Ill-done, the whole of it, and like to have killed one Ren Zel dea’Judan in truth, as well as by custom.

  “Allow me,” Anthora said softly. “Allow me at the least to go to your aunt, beloved. Allow me to kneel at her feet and thank her from my heart, for the astonishment and the delight that is yourself.”

  How that would please Aunt Chane! Ren Zel thought, with a mixture of horror and humor. To have a child of a High House kneel before her, thodelm of a middling mercantile House based upon an outworld? Every sensibility must rebel! And, yet, how could he ask his lifemate, who shared not only his life, but his soul, to carry any shame or dishonor? And especially for this, which was no more her fault than . . . his.

  He stepped forward and raised his hand, gently, to cup her cheek.

  “We will go together,” he said. “You will say all that you must, respectfully and with restraint, and honor will put an end to shame.”

  Longing swept through him—hers—chill as a sudden rain, and gone as quickly. Anthora smiled at him, and turned her head to kiss his palm.

  “Of course it will,” she murmured.

  “Bad night, Bethy?” Sal asked when they met at the caf.

  “The dream, again,” she said, low-voice, so Rijmont, just behind her, wouldn’t hear. Grandfather had taught her that it was not only shameful, but stupid, to show weakness. And, indeed, if it had been Rijmont who had dared to ask after her sleep, she might—no, she would—have given him the answer he deserved. Sal, though, was—different. Soon after she had joined the team as an emergency fill-in, he had found her sitting on the catwalk in the dark, chin nestled on arms folded over the rail, feet swinging in the darkness above the repair bay, far below. He’d sat down next to her, hooked his arms over the rail, and let his feet swing, too, and saying nothing at all.