Trader's Leap (Liaden Universe Book 23)

by Sharon Lee

  “It is possible, I suppose, that the field of luck might move to consume me—my talent—for reasons or conditions peculiar to itself. But is it not true that the field of luck does not inevitably produce . . . good results for those of Korval?”

  “Very true,” said the yos’Galan. “Between us, Master pai’Fortana, I strive to have as little to do with Korval’s Luck as possible.”

  Mar Tyn looked at him seriously.

  “You know that you cannot withhold yourself, surely?”

  “I had suspected it. Still, perhaps some resistance is salutary.”

  Mar Tyn smiled slightly.

  “Perhaps it might be, at that.”

  “So, you counted yourself safe enough—what little thought you gave to the matter at all—because random event is . . . random?”

  “Something alike,” Mar Tyn admitted. “And truly, I did not think of it overmuch. There were more pressing things in-queue.”

  “Indeed.”

  The master trader sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  “Tell me,” he said conversationally, “why did Healer ven’Deelin bind you?”

  Shock brought him to his feet, staring at the man in the chair.

  “Dyoli bind me? Are you mad?”

  Silver eyes looked lazily up into his.

  “Apparently so. Who did bind you, then?”

  Mar Tyn drew a breath. The only thing that mattered, he reminded himself, was Dyoli’s life; therefore . . .

  “The truth, if you please, Master pai’Fortana,” the yos’Galan said.

  And such had his life been this last Standard and more that Mar Tyn drew in on himself, expecting the punishing lash across his talent—but there was nothing. Only interested silver eyes in a spare brown face. The yos’Galan, waiting for him to tell the truth.

  Carefully, Mar Tyn resumed his seat on the edge of the bed.

  “There had been rumors of hunters in the Low Port who were taking up Lucks. Four of House Fortana had gone missing in as many days, and those of us of the mid-ranking had been sent out to find what we might.”

  He drew a breath.

  “I found the cause, but too late; they had already snared and ensorcelled me.

  “I believe I had been unconscious, because suddenly I was aware . . . aware of kneeling in a vast, dark space. There was one source of light—the woman standing before me; she was . . . aflame, or so it seemed, and so tall.

  “‘Give me your name,’ she said, and that quickly it flew out of my mouth, straight into her hand. She wrapped it in black thread, and stood for a moment, seeming caught in thought. I . . . I had no power to do anything beyond kneel at her feet. I had a moment of weakness, and I thought I might faint—but I was saved by a flash of energy.

  “She looked at me then, and smiled, and I was suffused with love for her; and I knew I would do anything—anything at all—for her sake.

  “‘Excellent,’ she said, and slipped my name away into her sleeve. ‘You are mine now, Mar Tyn pai’Fortana. You wish for nothing, but what I wish for you, and because that is so, I will care for you as nearly as I care for myself. Stand now, and receive my kiss.’”

  He moved his hands.

  “I stood, and she kissed me as a delm kisses a child of the clan. I remember weeping with joy. Then she touched my cheek, and said, ‘Sleep,’ and when next I woke to myself, I was joining a strike team which had need of some luck. When that mission was accomplished, I was dealt out to others, as their need was seen.”

  “Did your mistress ride you hard?”

  “I would not have you think it. Truly, I was content. Occasionally, I would be smitten with bouts of weakness, but I knew it for a sign of her regard—that she had chosen me to sustain her—and . . . I was . . . happy. Even when I did such things as were . . . strange to my nature, I was content.”

  “It sounds a perfect existence.”

  “And so it seemed, from within. Eventually, I was placed in a team with two others of higher talent. One was Dyoli ven’Deelin—our talents worked in tandem, and gradually our ties to the Mistress became . . . less encompassing.”

  He drew a breath—sighed it out.

  “Luck, you see, had thrown us together, with our talents so nearly aligned. We were not unbound, but we knew ourselves, we knew that we had been violated and used against our own wills, we knew that we wished to escape the Mistress’s control.”

  He looked to the yos’Galan, who made a motion with his hand, inviting him to continue.

  “That became . . . difficult. But we knew that we had to obey, and behave as if we were yet extensions of her will. We also knew that we needed to wait for . . . the moment. The lucky moment.

  “It came as we were on-route to our next assignment. We were on Pommierport to meet another team and proceed together to the target. There was pain—a great deal of pain, but I was free, and scarcely minded, even when I realized that I was free of all and everything, soaring up and away until there was no air. I remember that—my heart stopped.

  “Then it began again, and I knew myself. I knew that Dyoli was holding me, in her arms and in her talent—Healing me, pouring her energy into me—pouring her life into me. I begged her to stop, but she did not—perhaps she could not. When my strength was greater than hers, I refused the gift, and brought her to the day-worker dorms, where she fell into a faint and since has been as Captain Mendoza found her.”

  “And the third of your party?”

  “Aph Zed? Aph Zed was a strong general talent; he despised me, which was not unexpected—only weaklings, after all, depend upon luck—but he also despised Dyoli.”

  He moved his shoulders and met those silver eyes.

  “She could only save one of us.”

  “I see. And the state of your soul at the moment?”

  “Free. Unbound. My own self, and none other.”

  “Excellent.” The yos’Galan paused. “I wonder—do you know the proper name of she who bound you?”

  “Tarona Rusk, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  The master trader rose, his bow a thing of fluid beauty.

  “I will leave you now, Master pai’Fortana. A meal will come shortly, and I swear to you that you will be kept current with Healer ven’Deelin’s condition. Also—”

  He paused, and made another bow, unexpectedly profound, and far beyond Mar Tyn’s ability to read such things.

  “I fear I must own myself the cause of your near death, and of Healer ven’Deelin’s current state of depletion. I hope you will find it in you to forgive me.”

  Mar Tyn blinked.

  “Forgive you for what?”

  Shan yos’Galan smiled, very slightly.

  “I cut the links that bound Tarona Rusk to her minions. Necessity was, but I knew, even so, that some would die.”

  The smile grew more pronounced.

  “It was, as you say, only luck that you and Healer ven’Deelin were not among them.”

  III

  Really, Shan thought, it was amazing how much good it did one to sleep with one’s lifemate, followed by a comfortable waking, shared shower, and a leisurely breakfast over which they discussed plans for the Line House they were to build on the new homeworld.

  “We ought to do this more often,” Priscilla said, echoing his thoughts as they approached the door to the captain’s office.

  “My thoughts take a similar direction,” he answered. “I propose that we seriously approach the schedule with an eye toward balancing the needs of ship, captain, and master trader. The ship is entirely too greedy of us. It has competent crew. I suggest that there is no need for it to have a full Korval captain on at all shifts. Even if one of those captains has stepped back from active duty.”

  “I’ll have the computer work up a couple of models. We can look at them together—over dinner?”

  “Priscilla, you astonish me.”

  “Do I?” Her smile was wistful.

  He leaned close and kissed her cheek, never caring who
might be watching.

  “Don’t mind me, love,” he murmured, for her ear alone. “I will be delighted to have dinner with you. How better to end a day which has begun so well?”

  She laughed slightly, and kissed his cheek in turn, placing the pair of them beyond the ken of decent people—should those people happen to be Liaden.

  “The war isn’t behind us, but it’ll be with us forever if we don’t let ourselves trust our own crew.”

  “I agree. Let us take up that topic as well. Perhaps over wine.”

  “Until dinner then,” Priscilla said.

  Shan stood in the hallway until the door had closed behind her, then turned back toward his own office and his meeting with Padi.

  Tarona Rusk

  Meeting Space

  * * *

  The meeting space was a construct held simultaneously in the minds of all there-gathered. In former days, she would have simply pulled all who were attached to her into the space she visualized and created with their leashed energies.

  Today . . . was the first time they had created the space in collaboration, each individual willingly tithing a portion of their energy, their talent, and their perception to the tasks of creation and maintenance.

  Tarona Rusk looked out over those gathered. Fel Pin had not overstated their losses. A mere glance down the room confirmed that their numbers were greatly diminished. That most of those remaining were mid- to high-level talents might at first be thought fortunate. Until one recalled, as Tarona Rusk did now, that the best use of the small talents and the bright ones had been as reserves of energy for the greater talents.

  Every talent in this room had been accustomed to having an extra tithe of power to draw upon at need, even as she had been able to draw on the entire net of those who had been bound to her.

  Every talent present, not forgetting to include herself, was diminished. All had suffered losses—the loss of self that had come with their recruitment only the first—they were mad, every one of them. It could scarcely be otherwise.

  They would need to recalibrate, she thought, tasting the mood of the room. They would need to do many things.

  But first, they must find where they stood with each other, and in relation to the Department that had destroyed their lives. She needed to know how many lusted for revenge—and how many would fight to achieve it.

  She took a breath, looking out over those gathered once more. Her shields were open; she had never hidden herself from them. Among those who had been in her care, some few of the remaining greater talents were also fully open. Most had decided upon compromise—open enough to be seen and heard. Open enough to do their part in the maintaining of the space.

  Open enough so that she could feel them—their anger, their grief; their hatred, and their love.

  It was time.

  She stood.

  “It pleases me that we are able to gather together as colleagues,” she said. “We have sustained losses, our numbers are fewer, but we are not weaker. The blow that sundered our closest ties has freed us to be many, working together for our mutual benefit.”

  She paused, in case there should be objection or question. There was only silence, a sense of increased concentration. The boundaries of the meeting space seemed to grow more definite.

  “We are met here to discuss what must yet be done, in the aftermath of our loss, using our newfound strength. While I am mistress no longer, I am eldest among us. I hope you will be guided by me in planning for the disposition of those who remain.”

  That produced a stir, as well it might. It warmed her to see so many invested in her topic.

  “I must ask,” she said quietly. “How many desire the destruction of the Department of the Interior?”

  Every hand went up, and Tarona Rusk allowed herself a smile.

  “We are of one mind,” she said. “That is good.

  “My suggestion for the destruction of the Department requires that we first rid ourselves of any remaining draws upon our power. When we are free of those remaining encumbrances, then we may move among the levels of command and eradicate them, unto the Commander herself—and the Department will be dead.”

  She looked out over the room.

  “Are we agreed?”

  “No,” said a quiet voice, and the dissenting Healer stood.

  Tarona recognized her—Kethi vay’Elin, a Master Healer in Solcintra Hall she had been before Tarona had attached her.

  She inclined her head.

  “Healer . . . ” she began, but she got no further.

  “No,” said another voice, from the back of the room.

  “No,” came a third, louder; and people began to rise from their chairs in waves.

  “No.”

  “No!”

  “No!”

  “No!”

  The force of their denial struck her in a wave, another—and another, beating against her soul—she snatched for her shields—too late. She was immobilized, her will throttled, and she would have fallen, save there came an arm around her waist, and a warm breath against her hair.

  “Mistress,” said Kethi vay’Elin. “Mistress—no. Please, you must sit down. Listen to us.”

  A hand on her shoulder. She was pressed into a chair. Will-bound, furious, she sat, feeling her body trembling, hearing rough sounds, as if someone nearby was gasping for air.

  “Release her!” Kethi vay’Elin snapped.

  “She will enslave us!” came an angry shout, backed by another.

  “There are dozens of us, and one only of her! If she had wished to reattach us, she would have come, one and one and one, as she did before,” Kethi said. “She called all of us together, to work as colleagues—did any of you find a lie in that?”

  There was silence save for the labored breathing.

  “Valisa dea’Manz! Allow her breath, at least!”

  There was a sense of easement; the painful gasping ceased.

  “Yes,” said Kethi. “The rest of you—release her. I take responsibility.”

  “I, too.” That was Fel Pin. Distantly, Tarona felt a weight on her shoulder.

  “Who here among us built no shielding against slavery?” challenged a voice Tarona did not recognize. “Call aye!”

  There was silence.

  “So,” said the voice that had called the challenge. “Let her go. She is no threat to us.”

  Her will returned, and with it her rage. She felt Fel Pin’s hand press more firmly against her shoulder.

  “Mistress.”

  She looked up to meet Kethi vay’Elin’s eyes.

  “You are not without friends here,” the Healer told her gently. “We wish you no ill, but you must understand that the Commander—even now the Commander has access to a protocol which will disband the Department. It is horrific; it will drop every operative at every level. I and my colleagues at Headquarters have been doing our utmost to keep her attention away from that protocol, while we work to weaken her hold on the organization. We—there must be an orderly transfer, Mistress. We cannot just . . . rid ourselves of our remaining encumbrances.”

  “We are Healers!” a voice shouted from behind them. Tarona thought it might be the same voice that had shouted that she would enslave them.

  “Yes,” Kethi vay’Elin said gently. “We are Healers, Mistress. Nor is this the first time we have met together since our ties to you were broken. We have already formed a plan, and begun to carry it out.”

  Tarona sighed, and looked to Fel Pin.

  “You might have said,” she commented.

  He bowed his head.

  “In truth, Tarona, I did not know, until I began the process of arranging this meeting.”

  “We needed Fel Pin’s ignorance, Mistress.”

  “Yes,” Tarona said. “I see that. Now, if you please . . . ”

  She stood, Kethi and Fel Pin giving way before her.

  “So,” she said, looking out over those she had once held as . . . slaves. “You are Healers, you say. I would be h
onored to hear how you plan to proceed. I assume that the destruction of the Department is still a point of agreement between us all.”

  “The Department, yes,” said the woman who had called for Tarona’s release. “The Department is a blight, an illness—a cancer. But there is a difference, Mistress, between the Department and those who were forced to serve it.” She bowed gently.

  “We are Healers. Destruction is not our business, though we are merciful, and quick, when there is no other way.”

  She turned to address those gathered.

  “Sisters and brothers, tell her. Tell Tarona Rusk what we have done thus far to further the excision of the Department of the Interior from the healthy body of the universe.”

  The stories came then, sweeping from one to the next, to the one after—stories which were different in detail, yet, at heart, the same.

  Stitched into one narrative, the tale went thus: When the Healers had come to themselves, after the shock of separation, whole in their own wills, they had first reached for those in their care, to assess their situations. All were afflicted with the malaise of the Department, some more than others. There were, in fact, those who could not be Healed, who were truly broken, who would seek to visit violence and mayhem upon the innocent unless they were placed under constant supervision. Resources were limited—often, resources consisted of one Healer. The irredeemable could not be freed to themselves and allowed to compromise those who might yet be Healed—or those who had undertaken their care.

  Healers did not take lives lightly, but all had been taught that it was sometimes necessary.

  The necessary deaths had been handled as humanely as possible.

  Whereupon, the Healers had turned their care to those who might be redeemed.

  “Will you give your lives to this?” Tarona asked, as the last Healer finished his tale and sat down, tears running his face. “Sustaining those the Department has tainted even somewhat—I suspect that is a lifework, my children.”

  It was Kethi vay’Elin who answered.

  “We believe you are correct,” she said quietly. “But recall, Mistress—we are tainted, too.”