by Sharon Lee
And knew nothing else.
—•—
They had been brought to the magistrate’s office, which was long and thin. Four rows of three chairs each faced a desk upon a dais. Behind the desk was a wall with a plain door in it. The door was shut.
Padi and Dil Nem Tiazan and Sally Triloff…they were sitting in the first row of three chairs. Three guards stood between them and the raised desk.
Three guards, Padi thought, was respectful, but not very efficient. In addition to carrying a large weapon, each wore an armored vest and hard boots. Two guards outfitted in such a manner would have been a more efficient use of personnel. Had they wished to bind the prisoners, one would have been more than enough.
However, they had not been bound, though the chairs they had been forced to occupy were so ill-formed that Padi could scarcely conceive of anyone being comfortable in them. They were Terran-sized, of course, which meant that her feet, and Dil Nem’s, swung above the floor. Sally’s feet did meet the floor, but the armrests were at a bad height for her, and the seat was too deep; she’d tried to sit on the edge, but her guard had leaned closer, forcing her to sit awkwardly back, her legs bent in the most uncomfortable-looking way imaginable.
Padi’s guard didn’t care that she sat on the edge of the chair; he loomed over her so closely that she could smell his perfume. He had laughed loudly when the leader of the team had asked, back on the street, which of them was Trader yos’Galan. Far from reprimanding him for discourtesy, the leader had given Padi into his particular care. Perhaps he had a specialty in guarding traders.
Now, while the other two guards maintained a seemly silence, her guard talked, loudly. His topic of choice was the proper disposition of pirates, especially those who preyed upon—his choice of phrase—the innocent population of an unprotected world.
Which was simply absurd. Most civilized worlds had protections in place. Liad, more advanced than some, had the planetary defense net…which hadn’t actually protected the planet, now she recalled, because Jeeves, utilizing the Captain’s access, had shut it down. But the concept…
“You ever see anybody hang?” her guard asked now, shouting as if she were on the shuttle, lifting for the Passage, where she very much wanted to be.
“Hey!” he said when she didn’t answer, his voice even louder. “You ever seen anybody hang?”
“No,” she answered shortly.
He leaned closer, so that she had to tilt her head far back to meet his eyes, and smiled, showing his teeth.
“I have,” he said.
“Oh, you have not!” Dil Nem’s guard exclaimed. “There’s not been any hangings here for fifty years! More, maybe!”
“Did! Saw a tape they made of the last one—thirty years ago, not fifty.” He looked from his mate back to Padi.
“What they do, see, is they tie a cord around the neck of the pirate they’re gonna hang, and they tie the other end to a steel grid. The pirate stands on a platform, right in the middle of a trap door. When the knots’ve been tested, the trap door springs open, the pirate falls, and—snap!—the rope catches, the neck breaks, and she’s swinging there, by the rope around her neck, her feet kicking a little bit until they get the message that she’s dead.” He nodded and looked over to his mate, whose pale face seemed paler than it had been a moment before. Not that Padi blamed her; her own stomach felt decidedly unsettled, and she couldn’t rid her mind of the picture of a woman, head lolling, the rope biting cruelly into the delicate skin of her throat, swinging gently…
“That’s what’s done with pirates and murderers,” her guard finished, and suddenly leaned very close, staring down into her face.
“That’s what they’re gonna do to you, probably. You’re one of ’em, yos’Galan; that’s your name, isn’t it?”
The picture of the woman swinging by her neck changed. Padi saw pale brown hair, disordered in the fall and its abrupt ending, tangled over her own face; her own feet in the very boots she wore today kicking feebly against death…
“Scared?” he asked then.
“Well, sure she’s scared!” That was the other guard, grabbing Padi’s guard by the shoulder and hauling him back. “Comes to that, I’m scared—and you’re scaring me! I’m putting you on notice, right now: I’m talking to Cap about you and Riley. Judging’s for the magistrate to do. Our job is to make sure they stay here for it, not to scare ’em, or intimidate ’em either.”
“Bruller likes to scare little girls,” commented the third guard. “Makes him feel big.”
“Hey!”
He spun toward this new attack, the movement leaving his side completely open.
Padi took a breath, put her hands flat on the arms of the stupid chair. She’d have to lift and leap, because her feet were so far above the floor, but that was fine; she had energy and trajectory; she could launch herself upward, break his neck with one blow, and—
Dil Nem’s hand clamped hard around her wrist; a shadow slipped between her and her target—the second guard. She was shaking her head, looking pointedly at Padi’s hands.
“Just stay peaceful, Trader,” she said softly. “Magistrate’s on her way. Bruller don’t have anything to do with her judging.”
Dil Nem’s fingers were going to leave a bruise, Padi thought with a faraway feeling of calm. She met the guard’s eyes and nodded. She could feel the adrenaline singing in her blood, mixing badly with her upset stomach. Deliberately, she focused, and brought up a pilot’s breathing sequence. Calm, calm at the board…
—•—
The man called Uncle stood with his hand on the hood of the birthing unit, staring up at the status board, reading the battle of wills described in the lights and gauges there.
For the moment, his will, expressed through the equipment, was the stronger; he could keep Daav yos’Phelium alive—insist that the other man not die, despite his obvious wishes. That circumstance would maintain for precisely so long as the Uncle kept his patient imprisoned in the birthing unit.
“…gone…”
Uncle frowned after that ghostly word, uttered as if it explained all.
And perhaps, he thought, it did explain…much.
If the man had noticed the absence of his lifemate, utilizing whatever sense he had developed over the years of sharing his essence with her, he may have assumed her dead. Whether, then, he had of his own will turned his face from life in order to follow her, or his body had simply obeyed some Tree-made, cell-level imperative, mattered not at all.
Then, there was the thrice-damned pod. Still not ripe?
The Uncle was inclined to think badly of Korval’s Tree.
Then, he was inclined to think again.
In order to live, Daav yos’Phelium required the presence of his lifemate. The pilot had himself intimated as much; supporting evidence was provided by the stubbornly unripe pod.
It was therefore necessary to place Aelliana Caylon into a slightly accelerated birthing cycle. She must be present the next time Daav was brought to consciousness. If he died then, within the circle of his lifemate’s arms, then the Uncle could consider that he had done all that he might, as one who operated in ignorance of the Tree’s intent.
There was some risk in accelerating Aelliana Caylon’s rebirth, but not, the Uncle thought, again considering what the status lights told him—perhaps not as much risk as holding Daav yos’Phelium long to life against his will.
The Uncle nodded once before turning from the birthing unit to replace the pod in its container, putting it back into the locker that also held all of the man’s clothes and those possessions that he had on him when he had been savagely attacked by his enemies.
Closing the locker, the Uncle quit the cubicle, bound for the place where Aelliana Caylon labored toward birth.
—•—
The door behind the desk opened.
“All stand for Magistrate Tinerest!” called the third guard.
All three guards fell back then, giving them room to stand. Padi s
lid off the chair to her feet, Dil Nem’s hand still tight ’round her wrist, as he came off of his chair.
“Step forward now,” the second guard said. “Stop on the red line.”
The three of them stood side by side on the red line, and looked up at the Magistrate sitting behind a dark metal desk on a slightly raised dais. She was an old woman, her face lined with experience and cunning. Her eyes were pale blue, and very sharp. She looked the three of them over slowly, as if she were committing their faces to memory, then glanced down at the screen on her desk.
“Trader Padi yos’Galan, Third Mate Dil Nem Tiazan, Communications Technician Sally Triloff,” she read, and looked at them again. “Which of you is Trader yos’Galan?”
Padi straightened and met the sharp gaze.
“I am, Magistrate.”
“I see.” She sighed, and again glanced down at her screen.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting; I was on comm with Captain Mendoza of Dutiful Passage. She provided documentation pertinent to the case, which I reviewed in preparation for our discussion here.”
The magistrate raised her head and met Padi’s eyes.
“Trader yos’Galan,” she said briskly, “the profits from your trade are forfeit. This is a matter of both law and pragmatics. Specifically, the law as it is now in force was properly applied; it is the policy of the magistrates to reward the proper application of the law, in order to promote an environment where the law is more often followed than circumvented.”
Padi bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself to keep silent.
The magistrate nodded.
“You would like to say that pragmatism favors the port—and so it does. However, pragmatism also favors your ship. If I were to order that your funds be released, in opposition to the law which is now in force, you and your ship would become objects of interest. I place before you the notion that your ship is already of interest to far too many people, no few of them, as I learn from Captain Mendoza, unsavory in the extreme.
“Now. As the information provided by Captain Mendoza casts reasonable doubt upon the contention that Dutiful Passage is an ongoing criminal enterprise, I will absolve you of one small, but very important, detail of law. You will not be required to sign the affidavit which implicates your ship in criminal activity. Do you understand everything I have said?”
“Ma’am.” Padi took a breath, and met the magistrate’s eyes straightly. “I don’t understand why Dutiful Passage still bears the burden of possible dishonor. In light of the information provided by the captain.”
The magistrate nodded again.
“That’s a reasonable question. The answer is that I am not the only magistrate on Chesselport, but one of a court of seven. I must convene a full meeting of my sisters so that we may review this new information together and come to a consensus. Obviously, we have not had time to meet, and I do not wish to inconvenience you further by insisting that you wait upon our deliberations, which might easily consume several days. What I am able to do, within my own court, is let the record show that, in light of evidence produced and verified as genuine, I—in this instance only—have set the matter of an ongoing criminal enterprise aside as irrelevant to the case.
“Having done this, I find that there is no case. There is no reason to fine you, or to incarcerate you. Therefore, you are free to go directly to your shuttle and lift to your ship, as the port allows. In order to ensure that you will, indeed, go by the most direct route possible, my own car will take you to the yard.”
She looked down to her screen, and said, “Dismissed.”
CHAPTER TEN
Dutiful Passage
Shan looked again at the incoming message queue at the bottom of his screen, which was simply absurd; the comm would chime if a message came in. Gods knew, he had work to do, but he couldn’t seem to…settle his mind.
In fact, the only useful thing he’d done in the last two hours was to send his regrets to the Chessel’s World portmaster, citing press of business. One ought, at least, to keep up appearances, even if one now suspected one’s prospective host of duplicity.
Or, perhaps, especially.
Deliberately, he flipped open the file on Langlast, their next likely port o’call, and began to read the precis.
Five minutes later, when he realized that he had read the same page four times without recalling a single word, he admitted that he might benefit from a quick session of self-healing, to reestablish focus and deliberation.
He stood and moved into the center of the room, setting his feet firmly, and deliberately relaxing his shoulder muscles.
Focus, he thought. Yes. Focus and cool deliberation.
He closed his eyes and took six deep breaths, relaxing more deeply with each, until he sensed the change of place, and opened his eyes to the soft fogs of Healspace.
He breathed in the fog. It had a mouthfeel like spun sugar, and tasted of citrus. Well, focus had been called for, after all. Best that the Healer and the one to be healed both had their wits about them.
Again, he filled his mouth with fog—this time, the taste was sharp and pungent—and relaxed into an aspect of calm objectivity as he waited for the who had called him here.
The fogs before him parted, and a man stood forth: tall and lean; his hair the silky white of a young child’s that had never darkened into gold; with silver eyes under thin, slanted white brows; a face that was long and sharp and brown. He wore a wine-colored shirt, and a purple ring flashed on his hand.
Shan the Healer extended a hand; Shan the Trader met it. Emotions flowed between them: worry, fear, and anger. Quite a lot of anger, which was…not usual. He was an even-tempered man, until he was not.
Still, it was a straightforward thing: merely a Sorting, a Soothing, and a Sharpening. The personality matrix was firm, informed by love, commitment, and clarity of purpose. There was no indication that the unusual levels of anger had eroded either his heart or his ethics.
Excellent.
Shan the Healer reached forth and commenced the work: Sorting the tangled, hot and cold emotions; Soothing the troubled soul; Sharpening the beleaguered intellect.
It went well, the work, and nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unexpected, until, abruptly, a weight fell upon his senses, and the edges of his Sight darkened.
He withdrew slightly from the work, and brought his attention to the man who was himself…
The man who was not himself.
Long and lean and hawk-faced, yes—so much remained the same. But this man’s hair was black, and lush, woven into a single thick braid; his clothing dark and shabby. His smile was sardonic, and there was a sense of both stillness and motion about him. Shan the Healer looked down, foreknowing what he would see.
A worn red gaming counter danced across the other’s brown knuckles, plunged off the edge of the hand—and vanished into the ether of Healspace.
Shan the Healer felt a thrill…perhaps of horror.
“Return me myself,” he said, his words swallowed by the fog.
The smile grew softer; perhaps there was sympathy in those space-black eyes.
“But I am yourself, as we discussed, and you will need all of me, soon or late. Your lady will also need Moonhawk, I fear, in every aspect possible.”
“You terrify me.”
“Not in this place, child. There is no terror here. Or none that is not soon soothed and straightened and made into joy.” He raised his hands, showing the marker between two fingers, and smiled. “But I did not come here merely to visit. I would ask a question regarding our heart, if you will grant the boon.”
It was honestly said; the fog would have shown him any falseness. And an honest request for Healing must be honored, in Healspace.
Even if it came from oneself.
Shan inclined his head.
“Ask.”
“It is a small thing, but I wonder, this shadow upon your heart. You have straightened it, and you have soothed it, but you have not transformed
it into joy. These are the deaths at Solcintra, I think you still feel?”
Shan sighed. “Some things do not transmute into joy.” He raised a hand, seeing the amethyst throw lightning into the fog. “I am a Healer; my strengths are rooted in life. Though we did what was correct and necessary, yet I think that, if we use the methods of our enemy, are we not—our enemy?”
“Would you have healed them all, your enemies?”
“Some things,” said Shan, “cannot be healed. But perhaps we should first make the attempt.”
“Sweet child. But I am of a mind with you.” Lute smiled. “Astonishing, is it not?”
“Who, in fact, would have thought so?” Shan said, smiling himself. “Now that we have dealt with this matter upon our heart, will you return me to myself?”
“Of course I will!” said Lute. “Only meet me halfway.” He extended a hand that was innocent of rings.
Shan the Healer met it, felt his fingers strongly gripped.
A tide flowed between them; of what strange waters, he could not have said. He sensed no poison, nor anything inimical, though he tasted the essence of years stretching into a past far exceeding his own.
There was a moment when his senses faltered, the fogs of Healspace melting around him, until it seemed that he stood astride galaxies and looked out over the glittering lives of an entire universe. He stretched, godlike…
…and contracted into himself, senses reeling, Healspace cuddled about his shoulders like a blanket.
Shan the Healer blinked his Sight clear, and looked into the familiar face of Shan the Trader, who wore an expression of wry resignation, tinged with wary wonder.
“What cannot be mended must be worn rent,” the Trader offered.
The Healer sighed.
“That would go down easier, if I were not trained to mend. Let us have one more look at us.” He extended a hand on which the purple ring flashed a little more brightly than its wont in this place, and met a hand wearing a ring identical in all respects.
Emotions flowed between them, spritely, like the stream that had threaded Trealla Fantrol’s parklands, and into which he had merrily fallen as a child.
