Trader's Leap (Liaden Universe Book 23)

by Sharon Lee

  A shadow moved inside the filigreed box, and here came a stout creature strolling down the ramp, looking very dignified indeed.

  At the end of the ramp, she sat on her haunches and folded her front paws before her chest, like a stern elder sister overseeing the rambunctions of her juniors.

  “Master pai’Fortana,” said the yos’Galan solemnly, “allow me to present Lady Selph. My Lady, here is Mar Tyn pai’Fortana, whom you had particularly wished to meet.”

  He spoke to her not as if she were an animal, but as he might speak to a rational thinker. Mar Tyn therefore produced a bow fitting to a lady’s honor.

  “Service, Lady Selph,” he said politely. “How may I best please you?”

  Tarona Rusk

  Her Proper Business

  * * *

  She had debated with herself how best the thing might be done.

  Ought she to reach out from the shadows and take him in one blinding blow?

  Ought she to make him afraid and powerless and toy with him until he begged?

  Ought she to insinuate herself into the links that bound them—of creature and creator—to stop his heart, rupture his brain as he slept?

  Or! Ought she strip him of his memories, one by one, until he was a husk, a nothing, until he finally succumbed to entropy, having forgotten how to breathe?

  It was, after all, revenge that she wanted—nothing so complex, so demanding of art and honor . . . as Balance. There could be no Balance for what he had done.

  Just as there could be no Balance—no, nor justice, either—for all that she had done.

  She was what he—what they, what the Department—had made her—and in that, he had been true to his word. She would be a goddess, he had told her; powerful beyond words, commanding loyalty and love from the multitudes of her inferiors.

  She had been a goddess to those she had bound. They had been loyal to her as she desired, and loved her in greater or lesser degrees, as she found prudent.

  A goddess, yes.

  A goddess of destruction.

  He must be aware, that she had decided. He must know, as she had, the harm—no, the evil—he had caused. He must die—that was plain necessity—but she could make him suffer a subjective twelve thousand years of torment before she granted him that kindness. It would have been satisfying to have taken him in a duel, but there was some measure of Balance in a duel; and if there was to be any Balance at all in the matter, it would be that she would take him unaware—as he had taken her.

  She had codes; she used them. Too, she was known in this place, if any saw her.

  But no one would see her.

  So it was that she was waiting for him in his office—in his office secured by the machines, the dramliz killers, which protected him against her, whom he had taken, crushed into dust, and remolded into the Department’s creature, sending her forth to do likewise.

  It was . . . curious . . . that he relied upon the machines. But there, perhaps he had not considered the possibility that she would touch a passing guard, and suggest to her that she was turning Captain ten’Veila’s protections on, rather than off. He had never valued independent thought.

  So it was that she was waiting for him when he arrived in his shielded office—and stopped, staring, struck, foreknowing his doom, even in the instant before she extended her thought and took control of his heart, squeezing it oh so gently—only enough, really, to alert him to what she had done.

  He took a hard breath, and was utterly still. She would have liked to taste his panic, but he had never been one to panic, and he did not do so now. Being no fool, he was afraid, but his fear was unsatisfyingly cold.

  “Going rogue?” he asked, when the pain had released him.

  “Paying my debts,” she answered him pleasantly. There was no need, after all, to be unpleasant. “I wish to be exact.”

  His fear warmed somewhat, and she felt the flicker of an idea disturb the surface of his thoughts.

  Casually, she reached out and took over his motor systems, forcing him to walk across the office to the chair he had reserved for his “recruits” and sitting him, forcibly, down.

  Panic did flicker then, and it was sweet.

  She touched the pain center, and froze his vocal cords, too, merely for the pleasure of being cruel. The room was soundproofed; no one would hear his screams. No one had heard hers.

  She increased the pain, and now—ah, now!—he panicked; he twisted; he sought to prise her fingers from around his heart, and almost she laughed. It was easy to consolidate her control, to increase pressure, only the tiniest—

  Her touch slid off of the pain center; her grip on his heart eased. Her power, which had been rising in response to her prey’s distress, ebbed.

  She became aware . . . of a touch.

  It was subtle, even gentle, akin to the touch of a comrade’s hand on her shoulder.

  Carefully, she explored that sensation. She followed it.

  Followed it . . . to the link.

  The link that had been formed when she had Healed Shan yos’Galan of his imminent death.

  So, he disapproved of her methods, did he? And what did Shan yos’Galan know of her necessities? He who had remade her by giving her back to herself before throwing her like a blade at the Department’s heart?

  It came to her, the answer to that question, in a flare of understanding as intimate as a binding.

  Shan yos’Galan knew necessity. Shan yos’Galan knew Balance. He would do—see what he had done!—whatever Balance required.

  With all of that, however, Shan yos’Galan was not a cruel man. If a life must be taken by Balance or necessity, then that life would be ended painlessly, expeditiously, and as gently as possible.

  Revenge—Shan yos’Galan understood revenge, of that Tarona Rusk was abruptly certain. He merely found Balance morally superior, and less damaging to those who stood on either side of the equation.

  Tarona looked at the man in the chair, his face muddy and slicked with sweat, his eyes mired in terror. The man who had captured her, altered her, and who, she saw now, had never ceased to be afraid of her.

  As he was afraid now; his heartbeat fluttering in her hold; his lungs laboring; the pattern of his being a disarray of smeary, running color.

  She stepped forward, bent, and looked into his eyes.

  “Baz Lyr, do you know me?” she asked, and released her hold on his voice.

  “Tarona,” he gasped. “How not?”

  “And do you know why you are going to die?”

  “Yes,” he answered, gasping still. “This will avail you nothing, Tarona. The Department is bigger than you, than all of us. It will win, and you will die.”

  “I will die,” she agreed, tasting the truth of it. “But the Department will not win.”

  She squeezed his heart then, and held it; maintaining the link, wide open, until she felt him die.

  Dutiful Passage

  * * *

  I

  The Healer’s pattern was greyed over with devastation, as if the fresh, healthy soul had been set afire, not once, but many times, until there was nothing left save a fine layer of ash over what once had been a proud edifice to honor.

  It was possible to live—to exist—soul-struck and ashen. A terrible existence, especially if one retained the memory of what they had once been, and how they had been reduced to . . . this.

  Damaged as she was, Healer ven’Deelin had yet understood that choice existed. One needn’t bear with an endless, crippled, joyless future. One might simply choose not to wake to it.

  Priscilla considered the grey field laid out before her Inner Eyes, and wondered if it would not be best to let the other woman go.

  “It is,” Lina murmured from beside her, “as if she has already died.”

  “And yet,” Priscilla returned, still focused on that dire innerscape. “And yet, something sustains her.”

  “The Luck sustains her,” Lina said. “His claim was for partners, so you had said. There mus
t be a link.”

  “True. If there is a link, we might be able to use it to regrow . . . ”

  “Lucks are not strong,” Lina pointed out. “Even if this one is an exception, it would be his life, to even begin a greening of—this . . . ”

  A pause. Priscilla felt Lina’s presence draw nearer, as if she passed her hand over the cold soulscape.

  “I do not believe we can effect a full Healing,” she said. “She has taken too much harm. Indeed, it is a wonder that she survived the separation and the subsequent draw on her talent, even with the support of her partner.”

  Priscilla stirred.

  “What is it?” Lina asked.

  “We saw the indicators for separation trauma, when we made our initial examination. I didn’t see anything to suggest this kind of injury—did you?”

  Priscilla felt Lina’s concentration sharpen until it was a blade—a scalpel.

  “No. No—you are correct. The question arises—what causes this? This, now? Surely, nothing that Keriana had done would produce such an effect.”

  The medic had been focused on stabilizing the Healer physically, and bringing her to a level of health which would support a return to reality from the fogs of the coma.

  Which meant that, even unconscious, Dyoli ven’Deelin had understood that her condition had changed, but not what those changes meant. Until she could weigh the new situation, she would—

  “She’s shamming,” Priscilla said.

  “What? But why?”

  “She’s protecting Mar Tyn pai’Fortana,” Priscilla said, certain of it. “She’s trying to make us commit. Are we the sort of people who will attempt to end the life of a burnt-out and useless Healer? Will we bind her? Will we attempt to bind him, through her? Are we friends, are we foes; is she in active peril or relatively safe? She must know—and know quickly. She has very recently been living in peril not only of her life, but of her soul, if we are to believe anything her partner said to Shan.”

  “But what—” Lina began—and stopped. Priscilla felt her concentration shift once more.

  “She is not only shamming,” Lina said, after a long moment of study, “she has set a trap—a very credible trap. This is an entirely convincing illusion.”

  Priscilla nodded absently, focusing on that expanse of cold ash. She could feel something that was not ash; subtle, and formed with the intent to harm . . .

  She narrowed her will, daring to probe beneath the ash—and struck something cold and adamantine, tasting of vinegar.

  The Healer’s will, she thought, withdrawing. This is not a helpless victim. She’s strong, and she’s taking no chances—not with her life, nor with his.

  “A convincing illusion, but not a deep one,” she said, withdrawing herself to speak with Lina. “The trap—I can’t see it, but I can feel its presence. Whatever it is, we don’t want to trip it.”

  She cast a thoughtful gaze over the sleeping face—cheeks sunken, eyelids translucent; her hair a swirl of pale red around the flat pillow.

  “It would be best for all,” she said, speaking as much to the unconscious Healer as to Lina, “if Healer ven’Deelin woke of her own will, and worked with us like a rational woman, rather than setting traps that are more likely to wound a friend than kill an enemy.”

  There was no indication that the woman on the bed had heard her; not the flicker of an eyelash, nor even the flutter of a breeze to disturb the illusion of ash.

  Lina sighed and bent close, placing a careful hand on the Healer’s shoulder.

  “Healer ven’Deelin,” she said firmly, infusing her voice with truth. “Luck pai’Fortana is safe and well. You are among allies, aboard the Dutiful Passage, out of Surebleak, captained by Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza Clan Korval; Shan yos’Galan Clan Korval, master trader. I am Lina Faaldom Clan Deshnol. We mean you only good. We offer a Healing, if that is necessary. If it is not, yet we offer you and your partner safety.”

  They waited.

  Nothing changed. The Inner Eyes beheld only that gritty field of ash.

  Healer ven’Deelin, Priscilla thought, had been honed in the crucible of betrayal. It would take more than mere names and assurances to convince her that she was safe.

  “I,” she said to Lina, “am going to try something. Shield yourself.”

  “Try what?”

  “I’m going to try to be convincing on her chosen field.”

  “She will have been accustomed to displays of power,” Lina said slowly. “Such a display, now, may drive her deeper into hiding.”

  “Understood. I’m only going to drop my shields, so she can see the truth of who I am, and make her own determination for her future.”

  “Ah. Perhaps that will work—though it is risky, Priscilla. How, instead, if we have the Luck brought to her here?”

  Priscilla considered that.

  “I’d rather she stopped thinking of us as mortal enemies first,” she said slowly. “It seems to me that bringing the two of them together before she understands the reality of her situation might . . . endanger the ship.”

  Lina frowned, inclined her head, and closed her Inner Eyes. A moment later, Priscilla felt her shields come up and gently seal.

  Priscilla once more considered the devastation before her, mouth pursed. Vinegar and steel.

  Then, with no fuss nor fanfare, she opened herself entirely.

  Power flared; she grew, expanding out of sickbay, out of the Passage, into space, the galaxy, the universe—beyond. The stars sang hosanna; her wings rippled with all the colors of joy. She was beyond herself; she touched eternity; she was no mere Witch; she was Moonhawk, and a goddess.

  For the space of three long breaths she allowed herself to stand fully revealed, limned against the universe.

  Then, carefully, she folded her wings, breathing out glory, until she stood once more in the sickbay of Dutiful Passage, a Witch, a Healer: a woman named Priscilla.

  She opened her Inner Eyes to look upon Dyoli ven’Deelin’s soul . . .

  . . . to a green and vibrant world infused with hope; flowers blooming—everything illuminated by the brilliance of the heart-link arching over all.

  II

  Priscilla returned to the captain’s office at the end of her shift, to do a final check of messages and, she admitted to herself, to recruit herself before joining Shan for dinner. Not that she expected to—or could—hide from him that she had—perhaps—overreached, but to steady herself.

  It had been . . . years since she had expanded fully into Moonhawk’s powers. Vessel of the Goddess she might be, but the Goddess had been . . . quiescent for so very long—astonishingly quiescent, for any who had read the history of Moonhawk down the centuries. She had not been abandoned—that she knew, deep in the core of her—only it seemed that the Goddess was content to rest, and leave any communication with the living world to her consort, Lute, who, so Shan swore, took a very delight in interfering.

  She crossed to her desk; there was a single message in the queue—from Lina. Priscilla sat down and opened it.

  Dyoli ven’Deelin, it seemed, had been satisfactorily situated in guest quarters. She professed herself willing to answer such questions as might be put to her regarding the Department of the Interior and Tarona Rusk, though she did make the point that neither the Department nor “the Mistress” had confided in her. She did, very properly, ask that her thanks be conveyed to the captain and master trader for their care. She refused the offer of the pinbeam, saying that she required some time to organize herself before contacting her parent and her clan—which, Lina allowed, was the very face of prudence.

  Healer ven’Deelin did not ask to see Mar Tyn pai’Fortana, which might, Lina said, be thought odd by those who were unable to See the breadth and the depth of the links they shared.

  That was well done, then, thought Priscilla. She wanted to discuss the matter with Shan before allowing those two in the same room.

  She sighed, filed Lina’s note, and pushed the chair away from the desk,
closing her eyes. First a rejuvenation exercise, she thought, already reaching for—

  Come to me.

  Shan dropped his shields and considered the young person before him. A robust child—but no, he thought of a sudden. He must break himself of that pattern. While it was true that an offspring will always seem a child to her parent, there was a disservice done both, if the child was not permitted to become her own adult.

  Melant’i, Shan, he told himself. Strive to have some conduct.

  So then, the person before him—a young adult, who had not been shy of taking on more and more of an adult’s burden. Who strove with all of her considerable will toward her life goal of attaining the amethyst, and standing as a master trader. Who was also attempting to accommodate a remarkable, and unwelcome, gift. She would not, he thought, ever be an easy dramliza, but she would not shrink from her power, nor hesitate to use it for Balance.

  In the near past, the pattern of her being had been—subdued, depressed. That had vanished with the blossoming of her gift. Now, she was radiant—one might say, brilliant—the edges of her soul not bounded so much as fading into the distant pearly shine of the empyrean.

  It was, Shan thought, rather alarming to think that one had sired such a being. One hardly knew how to be worthy of her, and only hoped that the minor wisdoms gained during his longer lifetime were of use and did her no harm.

  For instance, that aspect, which seemed to fade away into—or—even more disturbing!—merge with—the macrocosm of energies accessible to wizardkind. He had Seen many patterns and, indeed, many youths, down the tale of his years, but he was at a loss to recall if he had ever Seen one quite like this.

  Weak as he remained, she ought to have drawn him like a lodestone, yet she did not. Her power was evident, but curiously . . . passive.

  “Sir?” Padi asked quietly. “Ought we—I mean no disrespect! I only wonder if you are well enough to pursue this lesson.”