by Sharon Lee
“Useless,” she said crisply.
Oh, dear, Shan thought, sipping water.
“Please continue, Trader,” he said politely.
Padi considered him thoughtfully.
“The guidebook was published nearly three hundred Standards ago. At that time, The Redlands had not yet been engulfed by Dust. We are told that there are three planets in-system: Metlin, the scientific base; Ukarn, a mining operation; and Colemeno, agriculture and system administration. At the time the guidebook was written, Colemeno was the port planet, receiving goods from outside the system, and placing goods and information from its sister planets into the trade routes.”
She paused.
Shan lifted an eyebrow.
She continued.
“All of this information predates the arrival of Dust in the Redland System. Not only has considerable time passed since the publication of the guidebook, but the Dust is only just now moving away. The Redlands—who can tell what has survived of The Redlands?”
“Ah! You suspect a descent into savagery!”
She frowned.
“I suspect,” she said, more moderately than her frown would predict, “changes. The Redlands would have been thrown entirely onto their own resources once they were engulfed. It would not be wonderful if the scientific station had been closed, for instance.”
“You don’t think that Rostov’s Dust is worthy of study?” Shan asked.
“I question the effect on the instruments,” she said, “but I concede they may have found an answer to that, and continued as a scientific station. Likewise, the mining operations may have continued, but where would the ore go? The Dust would have cut off outside trade.”
“Would it have done?” Shan asked, leaning forward. “Would it necessarily have cut off all trade?”
Padi’s frown eased somewhat—perhaps it was surprise.
“As a pilot, you have surely seen Dust warnings. I’ve studied the calibration problems attached to Jumping into any large manifestation of Dust. As for bringing—well, the Passage!—into a Dust zone—”
“The Carresens Syndicate maintains a station at Edmonton Beacon, which rides the Dust. Or did.”
Padi stared at him.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “The Carresens operate Hacienda Estrella, serving family Loop ships, small freighters, and others who come out of the Dust. You think that The Redlands have a similar arrangement, trading with small shippers who can more easily navigate Dust conditions?”
“I am,” Shan said modestly, “well-known to stand as an optimist.”
She laughed, which was, he admitted, something of a relief.
“Though,” he added pensively, “I have never actually witnessed a civilization descended into savagery. Perhaps that would be interesting.”
“Between us, it sounds quite tedious,” Padi said. “Plus, you know, we might be moved to do something.”
“Our besetting sin, yes. Are we then agreed that we will find three worlds doing well enough, and perhaps in need of what we can bring them, now that the Dust has released them to larger opportunity?”
“Yes, agreed.”
“Excellent. We will therefore plan on putting in to Colemeno, where we will respectfully propose ourselves to Admin. Does this plan meet with your approval, Trader?”
“It does,” she answered slowly, her mind perhaps on something else.
As if conscious of her lapse, she raised her eyes to his.
“Forgive me, Master Trader. I only wonder how we will choose, at Volmer?”
“You anticipate my next topic!” he said gaily. “Let us by all means consider between us what cargo we might usefully bring to The Redlands, not, perhaps, to answer any particular need, but to display the range available to us, while informing everyone we speak to that we are eager to learn what they most need, so that we may provide it to them.”
Padi sat up straighter, and opened her note taker.
“I wrote down some things that occurred to me over breakfast,” she said.
Shan leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Did you? By all means, Trader, enlighten me.”
IV
The ship had been gracious, Dyoli acknowledged, as she finished the meal she supposed must be her nuncheon.
She had been given medical attention; Healed, and prescribed a high-caloric diet. She had communed, briefly, with a goddess, and been granted her own quarters, with a door that locked from the outside, her rescuers not remotely resembling idiots. Her clothing was from ship’s stores, so that she was clad as seemly as any ranking member of the ship’s company, save there was no Tree-and-Dragon on the breast of her jacket.
Neither was there Ixin’s Moon-and-Rabbit, and that—that was very nearly an omen.
Not that Dyoli ven’Deelin believed in omens. Not as such.
She believed in luck.
She believed in the power of the Code, both sorrow and joy.
And she believed in her own abilities.
They were not, granted, the abilities most valued in a child of Ixin. It had been a blow to her mother, when her heir had come Healer, but a blow only to the ego, as Dyoli was all too able to see.
There had been no need to mourn the loss of a trade-bred daughter to the cha’dramliz. Ixin did not lack for traders. Indeed, Til Den, her younger brother of the same mother, had stepped into the void created by Dyoli’s departure for Healer Hall, achieving the garnet handily, and last seen, had been well along the path that ended at amethyst.
Dyoli finished her tea and put the cup on the tray.
Dutiful Passage had, among its other generosities, offered her use of the pinbeam, so that she might report her whereabouts and condition to her delm. Certainly, she ought to do something like, and soon; but she was . . . disinclined. What, after all, might she say to her delm, that would begin to make sense of—
The door chimed.
Dyoli rose from her chair.
“Who comes?” she called.
“Healer ven’Deelin, it is Shan yos’Galan. May I join you? I fear we have matters to discuss.”
Matters to discuss, by the gods. Almost, Dyoli laughed. Instead, she composed her face, and said gently, “Please enter, Master Trader. Indeed, we have much to discuss.”
* * *
“I wonder,” Shan yos’Galan said, after they had done with the pleasantries, and she had assured him that she wanted for nothing—a polite mistruth—“I wonder how long it has been since you had news of home?”
Dyoli frowned. Truly, time had moved . . . oddly in the Mistress’s care, and while she was in possession of this day’s date on the homeworld, the precise date of her . . . recruitment eluded her.
“I believe on the order of two Standards; it may have been more, but not, I think, less.”
“I see. I must give you information pertinent to your case,” he said. “You will not, for instance, have heard that the Council has banished Korval from Liad.”
Dyoli stared at him, strongly suspecting some attempt at humor.
His face was quite composed, however—all that was polite and well-bred—and she opened her Inner Eyes, meaning to be certain.
A shield met her Sight, supple and silver, and shimmering as if with some inner light.
She sighed, closed her Inner Eyes, and met his politely curious gaze.
“Forgive me,” she said, her voice moderate, though her face was warm. “I had suspected a jest. Of course, you would not make light of such a thing. But you must allow my astonishment, sir. Korval banned from Liad? Has the Council run mad? For what imagined cause?”
“Yes,” he said, “and yes, again. Aggression against the homeworld, which I must be the first to tell you is quite true. Merely the Council refused to entertain evidence that the act of aggression was brought against an enemy burrowed beneath the planet surface.”
“And so the Council has run mad. I see.”
“I am,” he said, as gently as the High Tongue would allow him, “bound to say
that, of course. I introduce the topic only so that you might understand why you must contact your delm immediately, and find a way off of this ship. Ixin will not want to be entangled in Korval’s difficulties, or be seen to associate with us.”
Dyoli shivered.
“Did Ixin . . . ” she began, and caught herself on the edge of impropriety, raising a hand. “Your pardon. I do not need to know that.”
Because so long as she did not know if Ixin had voted to expel Korval from Liad, she could remain an honored guest of an occasional trade ally.
She glanced aside, and he waited, allowing her time to think.
“I understand, I think, the relative positions of our clans,” she said at last. “However, my personal situation is far from simple.”
“I have spoken at some length with Master pai’Fortana,” Shan yos’Galan said.
“Then you are informed.”
She met his eyes.
“Master Trader, I would speak with my partner, so that we may plan together.”
He considered her, and she braced herself. Lucks were despised and mistrusted on Liad. If Master Trader yos’Galan had spoken at length with Mar Tyn, he would not have failed to notice that the High House ven’Deelin claimed a partner who was plainly of the Low Port; a clanless rogue, as the High Port counted such things.
She considered the link that bound her to Mar Tyn, comforted to feel that he considered himself both well and well treated.
“Master pai’Fortana,” Shan yos’Galan said at last, “admits a partnership, and a regard, forged in the fires of shared misfortune. He also allows me to know that your talents have an affinity for each other. That, in fact, they mesh into something which is neither Luck, nor Healing, nor Short-Sight, but something—else. Do I have that correctly?”
Dyoli blinked, taking a moment to master her surprise.
Mar Tyn had told Shan yos’Galan the secret of her second talent. Mar Tyn, therefore, trusted this man. That . . . was telling.
“Yes,” she said. “We are . . . uniquely compatible.”
“Given that this is the case, you will understand my reluctance to allow such a meeting,” he said. “I do not willingly—or, one hopes, at all—risk my ship, nor my kin, nor my crew.”
“I understand,” she said. “You may scan me, if you wish. Mar Tyn and I mean you and yours nothing but good. You saved our lives. We are in your debt.”
“Luck,” he said slowly—and raised a hand, as if he had heard her flicker of anger on Mar Tyn’s behalf. “I mean no disrespect! Indeed, I have spoken with Master pai’Fortana, as has my associate, Lady Selph. We find him to be a very good sort of person. Merely, you know, I have some experience of luck, and I am aware that it moves to its own rhythms.”
“Yes,” Dyoli agreed, “and it is precisely on this point that I can reassure you. The affinity of our talents somewhat modifies the . . . random effects of both. In fact, there is less risk to the ship, if we are allowed to meet, than kept apart.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is that so?” he murmured, and held his hand out to her.
She took it in hers, and felt a light, cool breeze pass over her soul.
After a moment, Shan yos’Galan slipped his hand away.
“That,” he murmured, “is very interesting.”
He rose.
“Pray humor me,” he said, as she rose in her turn. “Be assured that you and Master pai’Fortana will be allowed to meet. I will, however, for my own peace of mind, put such arrangements in force as seem necessary, for the good of the ship.”
“Thank you,” Dyoli said. She bowed—respect and gratitude.
He turned to go, and, daughter of a trading clan that she was, she belatedly realized that she lacked one final important piece of information.
“Master Trader!”
He turned, eyebrows up.
“If you please, what is our next port of call?”
“Forgive me; I should have said immediately. Volmer is our next stop, Healer. Very soon now.”
Tarona Rusk
Her Proper Business
* * *
She had finished with the last of her private business, having learnt yet another lesson from Shan yos’Galan. The last one . . . she had not the heart to taunt her; found that she cared nothing for the other woman’s fear. Her death—oh, yes, there was nothing for it but that Chona pel’Bisit should die. She had earned death, many times over, but Tarona found it in herself—that she cared more that Sub-Commander pel’Bisit be prevented from performing any more atrocities, than she cared about putting paid to those committed in the past.
So it was that Chona pel’Bisit died in her sleep—an aneurysm in the brain—and the universe was spared any more of her particularly loathsome cruelties.
Surely, Tarona Rusk thought, ironically, the universe was grateful.
In the meanwhile, she was wanted at Daglyte Seam, the Commander’s own base. Kethi vay’Elin had called for her, and she admitted to a mild curiosity as to what she might be wanted for. Possibly, Kethi had seen the wisdom of eliminating the Commander, and wished Tarona to undertake the task. She would of course willingly murder the Commander, though this particular Commander had done much less evil than her predecessor, if only because she had been in the position for so short a time.
Kethi’s belief was that the download had been incomplete, or that the vessel had been in some subtle way unfit. In any wise, it would seem a dire case; best for the universe, the Commander, and the woman the download had destroyed, if an end were made.
Indeed.
Her boots rang as she went up the gangway to her ship. The pilot admitted her, and she gave her instructions.
Then, she retired to her quarters, to review the remainder of her plans.
Dutiful Passage
Private Meeting Room
* * *
The room was small, meant for one-on-one meetings, or partnered work. A table and two chairs filled most of the available space. A modest tea had been placed on the table—a pot, two cups, and a plate of small sweet things.
Mar Tyn did not sit down at the table. Instead, he ranged ’round it, ill at ease; wondering exactly what he was doing here, and for whom that other cup and plate had been provided.
He was wanted at a meeting—that was what the security person who had brought him here had said.
As his gift made no protest, he followed where he was led, and entered the room when the door was opened for him, the first to arrive.
His talent remained quiescent, and he was encouraged by this, despite his uneasiness. It was true that his talent was a small thing; Luck did not conquer all, or even most, though it deflected much. And certainly his gift was no proof against his own bodily harm. It was likely the captain who was soon to arrive, or perhaps the ship’s Healer, whom Lady Selph had shown him during their small soiree. The Healer looked a sensible woman, even kind. Perhaps—
There came a distinct thud, as of someone throwing a bolt, and the light over the door snapped from red to green.
Mar Tyn spun to face the door, dancing two steps to the right, so that whoever entered would see him immediately, and made himself stand meek, round-shouldered, open-handed, and unthreatening.
The door opened, and his meeting partner came into the room.
His breath left him; his heart slammed into over-action. Despite Lady Selph’s kind assurances, he had not—he had not truly believed that this moment would come.
Her face was thinner than it was meant to be, but radiant with good health; her pale red hair had been pulled back into its usual neat tail. Her light blue eyes were bright, her gaze unclouded. The ship had given her crew garb, rather than the sweater and slacks that had been found for him. That said something subtle about her melant’i, and his, but he had no inclination, just now, to parse melant’i.
“Dyoli,” he breathed, as if his blood were not rushing, hot, in his ears.
Two steps and she was upon him, gripping his arms and looking into his eyes.
“Mar Tyn! You are well? Unhurt? Have they taken good care of you?”
“Peace, peace,” he said, and did not laugh at her questions. There were few enough people in the universe who cared that Mar Tyn pai’Fortana was unhurt and well treated. Dyoli’s concern was a warmth that he cuddled to himself, even as he made answer.
“I’ve been treated very well—exceedingly well, now that I have been provided with my last desire. You are well, I see, though badly in need of a meal.”
“Bah! You sound like the medic. Let her have her way with me for a week and you’ll see me round-faced once more.”
“Then, I will be in the medic’s debt,” he said sincerely, and looked beyond her shoulder to the security person standing there.
“Sir?” he murmured.
“I am given to say that you may enjoy this space for an hour. It is monitored remotely. If you should require aid, say assistance required, and the system will send a member of ship security. The phrase for requesting additional food or drink is catering please, followed by a list of your needs. Should the temperature grow uncomfortable merely say cool or warm or scent.”
“Thank you,” Mar Tyn said.
“You are welcome,” the man said. “I will return to guide Healer ven’Deelin and yourself to your quarters in one hour.”
He bowed, and stepped back into the hall. The door closed; the light went to red, indicating that they were locked in.
Dyoli looked into his face, lips parted, as if she—well.
He slid away from her hands, drifting a bare step back.
“Mar Tyn?” she asked, but he spoke over her.
“Dyoli, the risk you took! My life is not worth half of yours!”
She froze, then her gaze flickered as she glanced at the walls. Yes, he thought, seeing her understand: The room was monitored; someone heard them or could access the record of what they said.
More, he thought, if the room could deliver cool air or a scent, it could deliver other, less amiable things. Apparently, they were not . . . wholly trusted. And why should they be? A captain did not dice with her ship—and a Korval captain least of all.
