Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  “Used to be, on Surebleak—and I ain’t noticed that it’s changed—you take your advantage where you find it. So, if there’s advantage in smiling and nodding and signing somebody’s piece of paper—nine outta ten ’bleakers are gonna take it. The idea that what’s written on the paper is something they gotta pay attention to, if another advantage comes their way . . .” She shook her head.

  “What they said on the street when I was a kid was, ‘It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.’”

  “But a Liaden . . .” Val Con started.

  “. . . will get Balance,” she finished. “Yeah, that’s looking ugly, right there. I’m not seeing the likes of Smealy comin’ out for Contracts One-oh-One, even if we offered the course.”

  She walked over to the window and stood looking out into the garden, sipping wine thoughtfully.

  “What we gotta do is get the streeters used to making—and keeping—contracts,” she said, feeling him come up beside her. She slanted a glance at his face.

  “Notice, I’m saying it that way, because that’s prolly going to be twelve million times easier than telling Liadens that, on Surebleak, contracts ain’t much better than blank paper.”

  “I concur,” Val Con said. “Local custom must give way. Contracts are the meat and bread of interstellar commerce. If Surebleak wishes to enter that arena—and it must, if it wishes to survive—then it must learn to honor terms.”

  “Qe’andra booths on every corner,” Miri murmured. “Getcher hot new contract here!”

  She felt a shiver, and turned. Val Con was grinning, green eyes bright.

  “Yes!” he said. “Also? The qe’andra who are on-world must each take a native apprentice—in fact, necessity will dictate that they do so, in order to produce contracts which are proper for Surebleak.” The grin got wider.

  “I will call Ms. dea’Gauss. Cha’trez, you are brilliant!”

  “Sure I am. Val Con—”

  He turned.

  “Yes.”

  “You did tell Smealy thanks-but-no-thanks, right?”

  “Ah.” He came back to her, and put his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her eyes. “In fact, I did not tell Mr. Smealy thanks-but-no-thanks,” he said, and she opened her mouth to ask if he’d lost his mind. He put a finger across her lips.

  “I told him that we were under contract to keep the Port Road open, and that he should leave here and never come back.”

  He lifted his finger.

  “Oh,” Miri said. “That’s good, then.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Bedel

  The dreams that Silain had given Rys were more complex than any he had previously encountered—thick with links and associations and calls to other, as yet undreamed, dreams. Some segments were so heavy, he could scarcely hold his head up for the weight of them; some so deep, he felt himself submerged beneath the reality and necessities of another—a state of being he recalled all too clearly, and had wished never to experience again—for a day and more after he waked. Once, Udari woke him, saying that he had been crying out in a strange and anguished language. They sat the rest of that night by their hearth, sharing a pipe and a pot of tea, and talking together of daylit things.

  Worse even than those things was the sense that he was dreaming out of order; that he was given explanatory links without first dreaming the larger topic they ought to have illuminated for him, confronting vaulting mythologies and dilemmas of the heart without having first understood the ethics and moralities that informed them.

  Far worse than any of that, however, was the growing conviction that Silain, the purveyor of his dreams, and his morning interlocutor, was not merely aware of the haphazard nature of his curriculum, but . . .

  . . . that she had planned it that way on purpose that his dreams remained strangers to him for so long as they might, and that he not guess what it was they sought to teach him.

  However, there comes a time when one has enough coins, even odd coins snatched haphazard out of passing pockets, in hand to buy a cake.

  His cake had arrived this morning, as he received Kezzi’s kiss upon his cheek, and watched her tumble into the back of the cab with her bright-haired brother. He raised a hand to bless their parting, and spoke a phrase from deepest dreaming; a small magic, to bind her a little more closely to the kompani.

  That was the instant in which the pieces flew and spun—and fell into a pattern he plainly recognized, which froze him where he stood, all of his attention focused within, until Malda whined in worry, and jumped up against his shoulder

  That roused him; he knelt and hugged the little dog, scruffling pointy ears until the small body wriggled in ecstasy. He rose, then, and snapped his fingers. Malda came to heel and they walked.

  When at last he return to the kompani, he went immediately to the luthia’s hearth, carrying Malda, who was weary, in his arms.

  Silain sat on her rug, shawls in all the colors of the rainbow about her shoulders, bent slightly forward, breathing deep and slow. She gave him no greeting as he approached, nor chided him for his lateness to her hearth. Equally, she might be praying, scrying, dreaming, or holding aloof. It did not matter; she would rouse, soon or late, and when she did, her grandson Rys would be awaiting her, with questions to ask.

  He settled Malda onto his pillow, and poured fresh water into his bowl. After, he went down the common to the cistern, refilled the buckets and the teapot, returning again to the luthia’s hearth. He put the buckets in their place, threw leaves into the pot and set it on the hearth to boil.

  To his eye, Silain had not moved. Malda was asleep on his pillow.

  Rys sat cross-legged on the blanket by Silain, and settled himself to wait.

  He must have fallen asleep where he sat; certainly, he woke, blinking like a fool, when she spoke his name.

  “Grandmother,” he said, straightening and raising his metal hand to accept the cup she offered him.

  “Grandson,” she answered.

  She returned to her blanket and settled herself, shawls whispering. He lifted the cup, breathing in the acrid odor of strong Bedel tea.

  “You wandered far today,” she said, holding her cup between her two hands.

  “I had much to think about,” he answered, “as certain dreams became clear to me.”

  “Will you share your clarity?”

  “I will if you require it.”

  “It is always a pleasure to hear my grandson Rys speak, but I require nothing. Merely I am interested to learn what came to you, and in what form, and if you are angry.”

  Angry? Rys sipped his tea, gingerly.

  “At first, I was . . . bewildered. Frightened.”

  “Frightened for what reason?”

  She was testing him. No. She was testing the length and the breadth of his dream-gained knowledge; judging how well and how deeply he had synthesized what he had learned. Well and good. Silain it was who had set this trap, and sprung it upon an unwary grandson, who surely, given his past, had known better than to simply trust her. But there, he had chosen to remain with the Bedel; he had chosen to become one of the kompani in heart and spirit. And he had allowed himself to believe that he could become simple in his trusts.

  “Frightened,” he said now, “because my first thought, upon understanding what I had learned—what I have become, by your design, luthia—was that you intended me to be your cat’s-paw, to push Alosha aside, and make the way smooth for another headman.” He sipped his tea, then raised his eyes to hers.

  “I quickly saw that this could not be your purpose. The kompani cannot accept Rys Newman in Alosha’s place, not even as headman-in-transit. There are too many of my brothers before me—wise and thoughtful men who would not hesitate, if it were necessary, to choose another headman. The Bedel have well-proven methods for such matters. Were it necessary to choose another headman, it would be done with the least harm to the kompani, and the most honor to Alosha. There was need for neither an assassin nor a sacrifice, her
e among the Bedel.”

  She nodded, and motioned him to continue.

  He sighed.

  “Then, luthia, I was angry, and I walked for a long time, thinking of the wrong you had dealt me. I loved you—I trusted you—and I was betrayed. It was more than I thought I might bear. And to return to the kompani . . . I was angry enough to believe that I would never do so again.”

  “And yet you did come back to us.”

  He smiled, feeling it twist slightly on his lips.

  “Eventually, I grew less angry, enough to notice that I had been angry on my own behalf; that I had choices before me, and no orders. I was then able to reason further, and arrive at the hypothesis that the luthia, my grandmother, who has invested a great deal of time and effort in my rehabilitation, had wished to provide me with . . . useful knowledge. I returned, to ask what it is that she has Seen.”

  “I’d been afraid that you would choose to see that I had abused you as others had done,” Silain said, extending a hand. “I should have known that you were wiser than that.”

  He laughed, raising his natural hand to meet hers, squeezing her fingers lightly.

  “Very nearly I was . . . less wise. Will you tell me what you have Seen?”

  She returned the pressure of his fingers and slipped her hand away.

  “Tell me what you think I Saw,” she said.

  He sighed, but she was the luthia, and, he suspected, she was still testing him.

  “Two things struck me as likely.” He raised one bright metal finger. “The first is that you Saw Miri call upon me to fulfill my promise.” He raised a second finger. “The second is you Saw that I would gather to myself a clan, to replace that which has been lost.”

  Silain gazed upon him with deep black eyes. “And your answer to those possibilities?”

  He shook his head, smiling ruefully.

  “In the first case, I remain . . . unfit to be Korval; nor is there reason to believe that Lady yos’Phelium will have reason to call me to her side. In the second . . .” He took a deep breath, feeling tears prick his eyes.

  “In the second, Grandmother . . . my clan is dead, as is the Rys Lin pen’Chala who had been. I have no heart to bring a new clan around me, and stand up as delm. My heart is with the kompani, and Rys is well enough for me, now.”

  Silain nodded, and sipped her tea.

  “Have you thought,” she said eventually, and as if she introduced a new topic of conversation, “what your brother under Tree will do with those who are under his care?”

  Rys frowned.

  “Surely, his intention is to offer them their choice. I met him at the office on port some weeks ago, and he said that his sister and her lifemate, and a Master of the Hall were devising a method of emulating the dream you helped me to make. He felt that he would soon be able to report on what success was had.”

  “Yes. And what do you think he will do with those who chose as you and he did?”

  It was on the edge of his tongue to say, Why, send them home to their clans and those who had missed them, and will care for them . . .

  But he took thought before he made an utter fool of himself and called into question how well he had learned what she had fed him.

  His brother was Val Con yos’Phelium, Delm of Korval. Val Con yos’Phelium was not a man to waste resources. Clan Korval had a deadly and inimical enemy, who must, finally, be stopped.

  Rys took a breath, knowing in his heart—knowing in his bones—what his brother would do.

  “He will offer them a second choice,” he said.

  Silain smiled.

  “Yes, that is the metal he was forged from! He will offer them a second choice. And who will lead them, those who take up the second challenge?”

  But Rys was shaking his head.

  “He cannot. He is needed. Korval cannot simply—” He stopped, and raised his eyes to meet Silain’s, the last discovery of the day snapping into place with such force his head ached with it.

  “Why,” he said, and his voice was not steady, at all, “I will lead them, Grandmother. Who better?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jelaza Kazone

  Flames flickered, orange and blue, and the warm air carried the aroma of vanilla and sandalwood.

  Miri took a deep, appreciative breath, eyes half-closed. The fire was a nice touch, even though it didn’t have real flames. It gave off real warmth, and that, in Miri’s opinion, counted for a lot. Just like the fur rug she was sitting on wasn’t really the fur of some long-dead animal, thank the gods, but a cleverly woven, plush blanket, which was also warm and a delight to the touch.

  In appreciation of the warmth generated by blanket and fire, Miri was wearing, not the made-for-Surebleak fleece robe, but a silk confection that was hardly any thicker than a spider web, and she was comfortably seated between Val Con’s thighs, which were also pleasantly warm, though barely covered by a green silk robe no more substantial than hers. She leaned back against his chest, feeling his skin against hers like there was nothing between them at all.

  “This is nice,” she said.

  “It is,” he agreed. “Would you like some more wine?”

  “Trying to get me drunk, Spacer?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I believe you.”

  He passed the glass over her shoulder, and she held it with two hands, sipping carefully. It wasn’t that she feared getting drunk—she’d earned her hard head in the merc—but the wine was an aphrodisiac blend that wanted some care in its consumption. This was a precious thing, this night, and she intended to use it well.

  So, a careful sip, and another, followed by a gasp and a shiver as the tip of his tongue traced her ear. She tried to return the glass, but his hands were cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing eager nipples.

  “Ah . . .” She arched into his touch, her head against his chest—and gasped again as one breast was freed, and the glass lifted out of her hands.

  Breast nestled in his palm, her blood warmer than the fire could account for, Miri closed her eyes. A pressure at her back assured her of his growing interest.

  “Occurs to me that this position gives you an unfair advantage,” she murmured, as he scattered light kisses down the side of her throat.

  “Only temporary, I fear,” Val Con murmured.

  Temporary, Miri thought, like tonight.

  Tonight, they’d given over being Delm Korval, the Road Boss, and every other official thing. They’d put their daughter into the care of her nurse, dismissed their soldiers and servants to their own amusements, and gone up the stairs, hand in hand, to their apartment, where they had set the privacy level to, “Disturb for Delm’s Emergency ONLY.”

  “Cha’trez,” he whispered, the movement of his breath across her ear almost too delicious to bear, “if you do not give over thinking this moment, I will certainly try to get you drunk.”

  She reached out, hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him toward her.

  “Give me something else to think about, then.”

  It was while he was engaged in obeying this command that . . . a chime sounded.

  Miri heard it, and made an executive decision to ignore it. In that spirit, she set herself to kissing Val Con even more thoroughly, pressing as much of her against as much of him as she could manage, naked and slightly moist as they were. She wriggled, heard him gasp; felt the jolt of his increased desire, and was about to press her advantage . . .

  . . . when the damned chime sounded again.

  Val Con growled against her mouth, and rolled them over, so that her back was cuddled against the not-fur blanket. He raised his head, shaking the hair out of his eyes as he directed a glare toward the door.

  “Is this a Delm’s Emergency?” he demanded, the usual icy tones of the High Tongue a little spoiled by breathlessness.

  “I regret,” came a man’s rich voice, speaking high-class Terran, “that it is, Master Val Con. I will be as quick as I might.”

  They’d put on thei
r Surebleak-weight robes, for warmth, rather than from any feeling that the intelligence that was Jeeves would be offended by a little human nakedness. Miri was curled into the double chair, her feet tucked under her robe. Val Con sat on the chair arm. Carefully not touching each other, both feeling the effects of unexpended lust, they considered the man-high cylinder topped by an opaque ball that was, at the moment, glowing slightly blue, which Miri took to be an expression of regret.

  “Well?” she said. “What’s the emergency?”

  “The emergency,” Jeeves said promptly, “comes to me from Bechimo and his bonded captain, Theo Waitley.”

  Well, Miri thought, there’s at least three emergencies brewing in just that one sentence, now ain’t there?

  Theo was Val Con’s sister, head made outta hull plate, just like his, and a slightly greater talent in the category of unintended consequences. Bechimo, her ship, was a self-aware AI of some considerable age, who’d spent the last couple hundred years dodging folks who either wanted to destroy him, because the Complex Logic Laws had been built on the unstated and largely unexplored “fact” that all AIs were bad acts out to destroy humankind; or who just wanted to use him for their own gain, because . . . well. Because all some people ever saw was their own gain.

  “Bechimo’s bonded captain?” Val Con said softly. “This is a recent event?”

  “As I understand it, sir, very recent. There were . . .” Jeeves cleared a throat he didn’t have, but which gave a nice, humanlike rhythm to his voice, “circumstances.”

  “It could hardly have been otherwise,” Val Con murmured.

  “Precisely my thought, sir,” Jeeves, who was—probably—one of the primary reasons the Complex Logic Laws existed, said piously.

  “But,” Miri said sharply, trying to ignore the need burning along her nerves, and to pay close attention to the business at hand, “there’s a Delm’s Emergency in this, right? Maybe we should know what it is. Real soon now.”