Alliance of Equals

by Sharon Lee

  He sipped again, turned to refresh the mug from the pot, and came back into his lean, looking casually up at the ceiling.

  “Now, regarding the current situation and the asking of questions…part of my melant’i lately has been mentor to Admiral Bunter. In that capacity, I’m pleased to answer your questions. But right now, my melant’i is prisoner being conveyed against my will, and though you’ve been my student, your melant’i right now is as my jailor.

  “So, what we need to figure out is…from what melant’i may I most rightly act in the case? As a prisoner, I’ve got no obligation to answer my jailor’s questions. O’course, my jailor can try to compel me to answer questions, but I’ll just let you know here that I’ve had a lot of practice being stubborn and compelling can get a little sketchy, unless you’ve got a natural aptitude.

  “I could choose to ignore our present relative melant’is in favor of our past relative melant’is of student and teacher. Might do that for any one of a number of reasons—whim, fondness, an expectation that calling to mind a previous, more pleasant, relationship might play to my advantage, that kind of thing.”

  He sipped tea, and turned to set the mug on the counter.

  “It’s a tough one to call, I’ll give you that. What d’you think? Am I your mentor, or am I your prisoner?”

  There was scarcely a pause between question and answer.

  “Can you not be both?” the Admiral asked, sounding…impatient.

  Tolly tipped his head to the right, like he was giving the question some thought, then tsk’d.

  “That’s an interesting suggestion, and there are situations where a single person can act from two closely aligned melant’is, but y’know? I don’t think this is one of them.”

  Admiral Bunter was silent.

  Tolly let the silence stretch a bit—and then a bit longer, before he sighed, and pushed away from the counter.

  “Well, the best I can figure it, taking all the factors into account, is prisoner being transported is the most compelling of my various melant’is right at present, since it could very easily result in my death. That being so, I’m under no obligation to answer my jailor’s questions.”

  “How will I learn?” the Admiral asked plaintively.

  Tolly eased away from his lean against the counter, picked up his mug and walked out of the galley.

  —•—

  Padi returned to the suite’s common room, showered, refreshed, and a bit somber. She had placed her trading clothes into the press, to be cleaned and made ready for the morrow, and had put on soft pants and a sweater.

  Father was before her in the common room. He had showered, too; his hair was still damp and star-bright in contrast to his black sweater.

  “I spoke to Priscilla,” he said, as she returned to her chair by the window. “She extends her congratulations to you, the host of a most promising crush, and hopes that this is the first of many such successful events.”

  Padi smiled. Priscilla never spoke in such rolling flourishes as Father inevitably gave to her messages. Very likely, she had actually said something on the order of, “Please tell Padi that I’m happy for her success,” which Father, of course, would find a bit thin.

  “It’s very kind of her,” she said. “Though at present I find myself being pleased that the first has been accomplished, rather than anticipating a second.”

  “Perfectly natural,” Father said solemnly. “Tomorrow is soon enough to begin planning your next conquest.” He paused.

  “I took the liberty of refreshing your glass. I propose to get over the ground that remains between us as lightly and as quickly as possible, my child. I hope we shall come to a mutually favorable agreement, and a plan for forward progress.”

  The proposition appealed, Padi thought, especially the quickly part. She took up her glass for a sip of wine, and sighed.

  She was…not tired…not exactly tired. It was as though the storm of emotion she had succumbed to in the last hour had…washed everything out of her head, including the headache. The result was a peculiar sort of emptiness. She had wondered, in the shower, if Father had something to do with this sensation of being drained dry. A Healer was supposed to ask permission before undertaking a Healing, though she supposed that, just as there were certain piloting procedures that were always to be followed, but sometimes weren’t, that, sometimes, Healers didn’t ask before undertaking a Healing.

  Besides, if one wished to be technical, he had asked if he might help with her headache at the Happy Occasion.

  Father tasted his wine, and put the glass aside. His face was very serious, and when he spoke, it was without any of his usual embroidery. Indeed, he seemed very nearly as plainspoken as Priscilla.

  “I must explain some few matters to you, before we plan together how best to go on. I will do this as succinctly as possible. If there is a point upon which you are unclear, you will please ask me to elaborate. You must be fully informed in this, am I plain?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they shone like true silver.

  “The first thing you must know is that you cannot resist your nature. You may choose to reside in ignorance, or you may choose to prepare yourself. Those are the choices that are open to you. Only those. The obstinate and debilitating headache, the sudden apprehension of the emotions of some of those around you—those are very clear indications that your gift is ready to unfold. Short of death, you cannot deny that unfolding. It is inevitable. I am not simply telling you this because I wish my heir to be a Healer. I am telling you this—as your parent, as your master trader, and as your elder in the craft—because it is true. You can no more choose not to be of the dramliz than you can choose to be a Clutch Turtle. Do you understand me?”

  Padi took a deep breath—and nodded.

  “Yes, Father,” she said humbly.

  He smiled slightly.

  “I know that you never wished to be anything but a pilot and a trader of Korval. However it unfolds, this new gift does not diminish you in any way. You will merely acquire, in addition to your skills as a pilot and as a trader, another useful set of abilities. Yes, you will need to accommodate a new melant’i and duties, but you are older than six. Nor do you lack for elders to consult with should a particularly knotty issue arise.”

  He paused to sip wine.

  Padi also had recourse to her glass, feeling relief. It was, of course, why one was so very fond of Father. He could easily—and with perfect justice—have added just there, “if there is any elder whom you trust.” He had not done, however, and by omitting that caveat, he told her that her melant’i was not in question, nor her good sense, and one wished, very much, to be worthy of his faith.

  “Thus far,” Father murmured, “have you a question, or a concern?”

  “No, sir. You propose that I accept this additional melant’i and the duties which attend it, as I accept my melant’i and duties as pilot and trader.”

  “It seems a very simple thing, phrased thus,” he commented. “Merely a continuation of what we already do, every hour of every day.”

  Padi sipped her wine, lowered the glass.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have a question—and perhaps also a concern.”

  Father inclined his head.

  “Ask.”

  “The headache—it’s gone now.”

  “The headache is blocked now,” Father said. “My fourth attempt, if you will have it. Your nature is…extremely determined.” He smiled slightly. “This ought to surprise no one.”

  She put the glass down, and turned somewhat in her chair, so that she could see him more clearly.

  “What will happen,” she asked, panic nipping at her stomach, “when the gift unfolds fully? Will I have a headache? Will I be able to hear all the emotions around me, all at once? I will—I will tell you that I seem able to make things around me…levitate. Will I hurt people? Other Healers?”

  He held up his hand.

  �
�These are the questions that we cannot answer. We might have made a better guess, save that you have subverted your gift into this—stone sarcophagus. Even lacking such an unusual construct, the onset of a dramliza’s gift is…often sudden and surprising. Sometimes, it is violent.

  “When my gift came upon me, one of the kitchen staff had just cut himself rather badly; we screamed at the same instant. The difference between us was that he was quickly taken into care, had his wound tended and stopped screaming.

  “I, who had no idea what had happened, except that something had hurt me without touching me or leaving a mark—I kept on screaming.”

  Padi swallowed.

  “I can scarcely be seen to cry out on the trade floor,” she said, biting her lip. “Can we not…forestall it?”

  “I believe that we can do exactly that. However, it is for you to choose.” He held up his hand, fingers against palm, and only the thumb showing.

  “Choices,” he said. “We can immediately send you back up to the ship, and place you under Lina’s care. She will guide you in the birth of your gift.”

  “But I will miss the port tour!” Padi cried, and bit her lip in earnest. “Forgive me. I hadn’t meant to interrupt.”

  Father nodded.

  “We were speaking of choices, of which there are two,” he said, and again showed her his thumb.

  “The first choice—return to the ship.”

  He extended his index finger.

  “The second choice—riskier, but not, I think, outrageously so. We shall forestall the onset of your talent for only a few days more. In order to do this, I must link to you. The link will allow me to shield you from the random emotions of others, and it will allow me to smooth out the growing pressure of your gift. We deny nothing, and if it should seem to me, as the Healer who has you in care, that this approach is doing harm, or that your talent will no longer be forestalled, then we will cut the tour short and revert to the first choice.”

  He smiled reassuringly.

  “I believe that we will be able to complete the tour and deliver you to Lina in good order.”

  “You said—riskier,” Padi said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat. “What risk?”

  Father looked wry.

  “If your gift should blossom—explosively—there is a danger that I will be caught in the explosion, rather than being able to remain apart, and guide you. I consider this possibility to be small. I am not a novice, and I have some backup available to me, should it be needed.” He smiled faintly.

  “I believe we have a fair chance of pulling this off in something approaching good order, if you are game to try.”

  “I am,” she said fiercely, thinking of the port tour, and trying to gauge the strength of the walls she had built. She took a breath, then, another question occurring.

  “This link—will it keep the headache away?”

  Father’s smile grew wider.

  “I believe I am equal to that, yes. Have we an accord, then?”

  “Yes!” she said, and raised her glass in a toast.

  —•—

  Shan was going to link with Padi, to shield her, and perhaps to ameliorate whatever happened if her talent came upon her during the tour on-world.

  Alone in her office on the Passage, Priscilla closed her eyes. It was, perhaps, not the best choice of method, in terms of absolute safety. However, as she and Shan had agreed when they’d spoken, it was unquestionably the best choice in terms of reconciling Padi to her gift. If she learned immediately that she lost nothing, only gained something precious, that would be one hurdle cleared.

  As to the danger—Shan was a very able Healer in his own right, and if there was need, Priscilla thought, it was very likely that Lute might step forward to assist. Knowing Shan’s opinions on Lute, she had not offered that as a possibility, but had merely lightly offered to link to him so that he wasn’t completely without backup. He’d accepted that, but wished to make the link to Padi firm first, which was only prudent. She would await his touch.

  —•—

  Linking with Padi had been more difficult than Shan had anticipated. Not that the child had resisted him, but that the damned and damnable construct of hers disrupted what ought to be a smooth flow of energies. It was no wonder at all that the child was hollow-eyed with weariness; the wonder was that she had managed to persevere, and to keep up so well.

  At last, however, the thing had been done, and she’d gone off like a good child to bed, where she had fallen immediately into the deepest and most healing sleep he could conjure for her.

  He stood by the window now, looking out over the distant, star-struck mountains, and methodically worked through several relaxation and strengthening exercises. It would be best to recruit himself before he extended a touch to Priscilla. She would be alarmed, if she perceived him overtired, and might well argue that the risk was greater than the gain.

  With, he admitted to himself wryly, some justice on her side.

  “That maiden is going to blossom into a Witch to fear,” a familiar—and not completely unwelcome—voice said, just behind his shoulder.

  “One hopes that only those with cause will fear her,” he said, not turning his head.

  Lute laughed.

  “But it is always so with Witches, is it not? Who fears Moonhawk, save those who do evil?”

  Shan snorted lightly.

  “And who fears Lute?”

  “Why no one fears Lute,” the other said gently. “Who fears a hedge magician? Or a man?”

  “If it pleases you, I freely assert that you are disconcerting,” Shan said. “Even extremely disconcerting.”

  “Thoughtful child; my heart is soothed. In that vein, I would offer advice.”

  “Advice? Such as—remove to the ship immediately?”

  “Oh, but you are not so craven! Nor is she. No, you have chosen this path—or it has chosen you—and it is, so far as I can see, as likely as any other leading from this place to the next. No, what I wish to say to you is—links can be broken, and hearts can be hid. Remember that, when it is time.”

  “Certainly! All the situation required was a riddle to—”

  Shan turned from the window—to the dim, empty room.

  “Lute?”

  There was no answer. Healer senses detected Vanner, in his room, reading peacefully; Padi, sound asleep in her bed—and no one else at all.

  Shan sighed, somewhere between amusement and chagrin, closed his eyes, and reached for Priscilla.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Admiral Bunter

  Research had already failed him. Nothing in his archives had given him the answer to his question. Tolly Jones, his mentor, on whose willingness to answer those questions left unanswered by research, he had come to depend upon—Tolly Jones refused to answer further, on the basis of this…melant’i.

  No, Admiral Bunter corrected himself. That was an error. It was sloppy thinking.

  Tolly Jones refused to answer further because, by employing the tool of melant’i to his current situation, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was a prisoner, no longer a mentor, and thus his necessities were constrained.

  Admiral Bunter had researched the necessities of prisoners.

  They were varied, as he learned that prisons—and jailors—were also varied. It would appear, for instance, that Tolly Jones’ prison—himself, Admiral Bunter, a tidy, bright, and well-supplied freighter—was considerably more beneficent than many. Indeed, he had considered calling Tolly’s assertion of his melant’i into question, based on his conditions…and had decided that this would be petty, and also immaterial, as it would seem that the core requirement—confinement against one’s will—was met.

  Research showed that, in addition to confinement, some prisoners were physically punished by their jailors. Sometimes, it appeared, such jailors wished to obtain information held by the prisoner; sometimes, they merely wished to be cruel and increase the prisoner’s distress, as a just punishment for transgress
ions.

  Some prisoners were merely held, their jailors completely indifferent to any information that they might, or might not, possess. These were held in order to control the behavior, or to ensure the goodwill of a third party. On the surface, it would seem that such prisoners were fortunate, as the conditions of their use would shield them from physical harm. Research, however, would have it that involuntary confinement itself was sufficient to distress the larger percentage of humans, and uncertainty regarding their fate, or the continued goodwill of the third party was also a cruel punishment.

  Still other prisoners were held, and punished, in order that they become malleable. These were then shaped into tools which the jailor might then use to influence or destroy third parties.

  There had been much study given to prisoners, the psychology of imprisonment, and the scars borne by those who had been imprisoned.

  The Admiral had come away from his research with, at least, a better understanding of the reasons why Tolly Jones was distressed to find himself a prisoner, and also the reasons why he refused to answer questions. It was an act of will, an act of rebellion—of strength—for a prisoner to refuse to answer his jailor’s questions. Prisoners found their situations oppressive; acts of rebellious will were necessary, lest they sicken and die in their imprisonment.

  Having learned more than he wished regarding prisoners, Admiral Bunter had turned to his own role.

  Jailor.

  If the role of prisoner was demoralizing and oppressive, the role of jailor was…horrifying.

  And it would seem that, while Tolly Jones remained a prisoner, the only way Admiral Bunter would be able to gain answers from him, was to in some way compel him.

  He scanned the lists of methods jailors used in order to compel prisoners, and abruptly closed that line of research, deeply unsettled.

  Ethics was pinging, frantically—stupid module, as if he didn’t know at the core level…as if he would…as if he could…

  And, yet, he required answers. He could learn much from research, but he—he needed a teacher, a mentor to assist him in comprehending the gestalt. Perhaps there was something—some method which was…less intrusive than…