by Sharon Lee
News of returning cousins is always welcome; I look forward to embracing all.
As for us—it has been a trip of parts, Brother. The number of ports that will not receive us, or will receive us only to cheat us—a circumstance Padi finds particularly egregious—is lowering.
The worst affront came to us at Langlast, where we met with unpleasant company from a source well known to you. We were beset, and won free, but not without paying Balance her toll.
I believe you were acquainted with Vanner Higgs, and trust that you will grieve his loss, as I do.
Padi was thrown upon her own resources. I hasten to assure you that she prevailed, and, despite having learned a salutary lesson, which is never pleasant, was unharmed.
Among the company which importuned us was an individual who had been much oppressed by circumstances. A highly trained, and extremely powerful dramliza; a recruiter, and very well placed in the organization. Her pain was acute, and I undertook to Heal her. When last seen, she was swearing revenge upon her Department and all within it. I trust that she will do well for us.
I must now report stupidity, which, as you know, rankles me, as I always wish to stand the infallible elder. However, there is nothing for it but to make a clean breast—I was an idiot.
In the course of freeing the above-said recruiter from her illness, I overreached. I hasten to assure you that I am physically well. Merely, I overspent my reserves as a Healer, and must now engage in rest, which I do, faithfully, whenever I have time.
I am at one with your desire that I return home to clan and kin, but I fear we must both anticipate a homecoming for some while more.
Having met with so much rejection and deceit in the course of our recent travels, the Master Trader has found for us a bold move. We are even now approaching The Redlands, as the Dust has chosen another partner with which to dance. He hopes to open trade, and to set up a base from which to move into sectors that have long been constrained by conditions.
Prior to our excursion to the edge of the Dust, in what must be seen as a superfluity of boldness, the Master Trader met with a representative of the Carresens-Denobli Syndicate. Several projects have started from this meeting, contracts signed. The Master Trader has forwarded all particulars to the delm, and to dea’Gauss.
I will write again after we have concluded what business we may find at The Redlands—there’s a solid promise for you! In the meanwhile, please be assured of your continued place at the center of my heart.
Priscilla—and Padi, too!—join me in sending their steadfast love to you, and to Miri, and of course to my niece, pretty Lizzie.
Be well, and try not to wish the boredom away, denubia. There is something to be said for a lack of adventure.
Shan
P.S. I had nearly forgot! We are soon to witness the death of gods, as both Moonhawk and Lute have stated their intention to leave us, now that a certain door has been closed.
Padi put her hand against the plate, heard the chime and the call from within to enter.
The door slid aside and she stepped into the master trader’s office.
“Well met, Pilot,” Father said, looking up from his chess problem. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Do you know?” she answered, with a sigh. “I believe you may.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile.
“How many approaches?”
“Eighteen,” she said, hoping that she didn’t sound quite as aggrieved as she felt.
The smile became a grin.
“You have, in fact, bested me! I agree with you absolutely, Pilot; a celebratory glass is very much in order! Sit! Sit! I will pour.”
She sank into the chair, surprised to find a grin on her own face, but there, he was right. She had shaved six from his twenty-four. Clearly a victory!
“Here you are, Pilot.”
She received her wine. He propped a hip on the edge of the desk, and smiled down at her as he raised his glass.
“To the heady achievements of pilots!” he declared.
She laughed lightly, raising her glass in turn.
“To figuring out the damned angle at last!” she answered.
They drank, still grinning, and sat for a moment, quietly, remembering, perhaps, other heady achievements. Then, Father sighed, and stood, and moved ’round behind the desk.
Padi had another sip of wine, and set the glass down.
“So then, Trader, I have some news for you,” said Master Trader yos’Galan.
She waited; he sipped and put his glass aside.
“Firstly, your cousin Gordy—I should say, Trader Arbuthnot—has been detached from Sevyenti and will be the Tree-and-Dragon trade presence on Tinsori Light. What do you say to that?”
“I say that it’s a very good thing!” Padi said warmly. “He’s been having the most dreadful time imaginable with Trader per’Cadmie. The restrictions he’s placed on Gordy’s lines of trade would be appalling were they put upon a fresh-made ’prentice. To constrain a full trader in such a—petty—manner—it’s simply spite.”
She bit her lip, and met a pair of serious silver eyes.
“In my opinion, Master Trader,” she added.
He inclined his head.
“Your partiality for your cousin is noted. Also, it happens that we agree with regard to Trader per’Cadmie and the extent of his abuses. That issue will be addressed in good time, but our first object is remove Gordy from the good trader’s influence. Thus Tinsori Light. Do I infer from your comments that you approve?”
“I do approve, most heartily.”
“Excellent. We proceed to my next topic.”
He opened his desk drawer, withdrew some small object, and extended his hand across the desk.
“Honor me, Trader, with your opinion of this.”
Three jewels glittering red fire set in a plain silver band. Padi’s chest tightened; she kept her expression trade-calm.
“It is a full trader’s ring,” she said evenly. “Quite new.”
“As the trader who will receive it,” the master trader murmured. He withdrew his hand, and stood to move around the desk.
Padi rose to meet him, tears stinging her eyes, as he took up her hand and slid the ring home.
“Trader Padi yos’Galan, welcome to the fullness of our art.”
She looked up at him, noting his eyes, too, bright with tears.
“Art?” she asked.
“So Trader Denobli would have it. You have made a conquest, there. And before I forget, there is also this.”
This—her license.
She took it from his hand, read that Padi yos’Galan was a certified trader, backed by the Guild, and constrained by its rules and guidelines.
“It is advisable at times like these,” Father said, after a moment, “to breathe.”
She gasped a laugh, tucked the precious card away in her sleeve and extended her hands. Father, and the master trader, received them and held them warmly.
“Well done, Padi. I note that you have achieved this goal ahead of both your revised schedule and your eighteenth nameday.”
“Well, that’s so,” she agreed. “I will need to improve my planning skills.”
Father laughed, drew her into a hug, and the two of them stood thus, until she had recovered the knack of breathing and broke the embrace.
“This brings me,” said the master trader, “to my third point.”
She looked up at him.
“Yes, sir.”
“I wonder if you would consent to hosting a small celebration, once we clear Rostermin. It will lighten the time in Jump, I think.”
“Yes,” she said. “I will gladly share my joy with the crew.”
“Splendid,” he said, and bowed her back to her chair.
“Come, let us finish our wine together. We do, after all, have much to celebrate.”
Civilization
* * *
Portmaster krogerSlyte considered the report from Director qeenLemite at the M
etlin Science Station. The Council had decided that it was too risky to announce The Redlands to all of space. There was considerable concern regarding pirates, especially with the recent example of the Reavers before them.
The Council, so it was understood, wished very much that the Dust would return and keep them safe from all and everything.
It was a point of view with which Portmaster krogerSlyte had . . . some sympathy. More sympathy, at least, than the Warden had, considering his speech at the last Council meeting, reminding them all that life was risk, and that they could not remain hidden forever.
The Council, as Portmaster krogerSlyte saw it, believed otherwise.
In any case, a compromise, so-called, had been struck. Metlin Ear had been instructed to expand its range, and listen to space. The Council’s thought was that, eventually, something in the way of useful information would arrive, which would then be given to Trader Isfelm, who would be responsible for taking what risks there might be.
It was, Portmaster krogerSlyte admitted, a disappointing decision, but at least they were doing something other than freezing under a bush and hoping that danger would look away.
Thus, Director qeenLemite’s report . . . which was—provisionally—disappointing. The Ear had so far heard nothing—not, so the portmaster was given to understand, “nothing of importance,” but “nothing at all.”
The director, who was inclined to regard orders from Colemeno Admin as suggestions, had also stretched the station’s Lesser Ears as wide as they could accommodate, and had begun cycling through the frequencies—listening only, she assured Portmaster krogerSlyte, though she also gave it as her opinion that they might safely risk a low-beam handshake. The station would not proceed to that step yet, but it was in the protocol.
Portmaster krogerSlyte nodded approvingly. Let the results of listening continue to bring nothing, she thought. The Council would become impatient sooner rather than later, especially as Trader Isfelm was due to arrive very soon on her usual schedule, hoping for news of charts or contacts.
The Council, risk-averse as it was, could not risk losing Trader Isfelm. Which, the portmaster thought, they might do, if the trader found the motion of Dust gave her a viable option to go out. One received the very clear impression that Trader Isfelm was feeling . . . confined.
She returned her attention to the report, noting that Director qeenLemite had added an addendum to her official report.
It seemed that, in her capacity as director of Metlin Scientific Station, qeenLemite had made a decision some half-year before Trader Isfelm had made her case for going out. Noting that the Dust was thinning, she had measurements taken, and consulted with her staff. They had together agreed that it should be possible to contact Metlin’s bounce station, one light-year distant. If the bounce station was still functional, Metlin might speedily resume communication with the wide universe.
They had therefore sent a signal, and were now awaiting the bounce-back.
The portmaster sat back in her chair.
Metlin Station had sent a query to its bounce station. If there were ears nearby—attached either to pirates or honest traders—that signal would be perfectly audible to them.
The Council, thought Portmaster krogerSlyte, was not going to be pleased. She, herself . . . inclined toward pleased. Yes, there was risk, but as the Warden himself had said—life was a risky enterprise, even at its safest. And, while Colemeno had no space force, it was not wholly unprotected.
In any wise, the report with the addendum ought to be sent to the Council. Perhaps it would spur them toward more . . . definitive action. She would craft a cover letter, pointing out qeenLemite’s efforts, and suggesting that approving the handshake protocol was risk at its most minimal.
Yes. She would write that letter and pass on the report—after her tea break.
She pushed back from her desk, stood, and turned toward the door.
A chime sounded, three notes, ascending.
The portmaster turned to stare at the console across the room. She had heard that tone before, during scheduled system tests.
Three chimes, ascending—in theory, they meant . . .
. . . message incoming.
Bentamin stared at the message that had been pushed to his screen by the portmaster.
Dutiful Passage out of Surebleak, owned and operated by Tree-and-Dragon Family, requested permission to dock. Their purpose was trade. A catalog was offered, and a history of Tree-and-Dragon Trading, for the portmaster’s perusal.
Bentamin blinked thoughtfully.
Tree-and-Dragon had a special place in the history of The Redlands. It might, in fact, be said that Tree-and-Dragon had made The Redlands what they were today.
There had been two high clans willing to risk themselves and bring the vas’dramliz of Liad away from certain danger into an uncertain future. The Dragon and the Rabbit, so history had it—Clans Korval and Ixin—had made themselves responsible for the safety of the persecuted small talents, with the majority of ships and pilots coming from the Dragon.
It had been the Dragon who had found The Redlands, thereby providing the small talents with a home that suited them as no other could.
The Redlands, Bentamin thought, were very much in debt to Clan Korval.
His screen pinged, signaling another push message.
This one, not unexpectedly, was from the Chair of Council. A meeting was called in two hours in the Council Chambers, the topic of discussion the tradeship even now entering orbit around Colemeno.
Bentamin sighed, and sent his acknowledgment.
Dutiful Passage
Colemeno Orbit
* * *
“So far, we are fortunate,” Shan said, handing Priscilla a glass and taking the seat next to her on the couch.
“In what way?” she asked. “It can’t be because we’re uneaten; we haven’t gotten near enough yet to seem tempting.”
“But we have been granted permission to approach, thereby moving closer to the possibility of being eaten. And Colemeno Portmaster has kindly accepted our catalog and the history of Tree-and-Dragon Trading, which is really a great deal more trouble than simply telling us to go away and leave them alone.”
“Yes,” Priscilla said, somewhat faintly, “I can see that’s a hopeful situation.”
Shan frowned.
“Priscilla, what is wrong?”
She didn’t deny that there was anything wrong—which was worrisome in itself. Instead, she put her glass aside, untasted, and brought her hands to her lap, fingers twisting together.
“I . . . feel,” she began—and stopped.
Shan put his glass down, and reached out to take her hands. The busy fingers were cold, and as he leaned closer he could see tears at the ends of her lashes.
“What do you feel, love?” he asked gently.
She took a hard breath, and looked up to meet his eyes.
“I feel that I must go with you, down to Colemeno. Moonhawk—I feel her . . . pushing. There’s a place—a particular place—that she wants—needs—to go. Immediately.” She smiled, wry and pale.
Shan lifted one hand and cupped her cheek.
“I thought your time as a vessel was done.”
“Apparently, I am needed for this one last thing,” she answered.
“I don’t suppose we can just call the pair of them a taxicab and let them go where they will?”
“That would be convenient—but no, I don’t think so.”
“Then I would suggest to Moonhawk, that immediately is not possible,” Shan said tartly. “We must make an orderly approach. We must not frighten the Colemeno portmaster, nor those to whom she reports. If we are not to be eaten—which, I now confess, was never part of my plan—we must be seemly. Moonhawk may have what Moonhawk requires, but she may not be first in this.”
Her fingers trembled in his, and that was a strike to the heart. She was afraid. Whether it was her damned Goddess that she feared, or himself, scarcely mattered. He did not allow
his lifemate to be afraid.
“My dreadful temper,” he murmured. “Scolding the vessel for the demands of a Goddess—”
Priscilla jerked her hands away from his and sat up straight, her eyes meeting his.
Her eyes that were ebony stars, hard and bright, set in a face of alabaster, smooth beyond both youth and age.
“Would you scold a Goddess, mortal man?”
Shan felt his lips part, and heard himself—no, not quite himself, after all—speak.
“Gently, my lady. He speaks from the heart, for his heart. You overburden your vessel, having promised her freedom.”
“She will be free. It can be done—now! I feel the place; I long for the ending.”
“As I do. Only think—we have waited long years for release. Can we not wait a few hours more? It becomes gods, I’m told, to be gentle with their servants.”
“We were not born gentle, nor did gentleness win us through.”
“But we may die gentle, having done everything we set ourselves to do.”
A breath, a sound, unmusical and ragged. Perhaps, Shan thought, it was the laughter of a goddess.
“An answer for everything, has my Lute.”
She leaned forward then, the Goddess in her vessel, and touched cold lips to his cheek.
“I will strive to be gentle,” she said. “Until soon.”
“Until soon.”
A flash of bright pain sent Shan back against the cushions. He gasped, and forced his eyes open, the agony already forgotten. Priscilla was limp against the sofa, her eyes opening even as he reached for her.
“Shan?”
“Yes. And before you demand it, I swear—never again will I scold a goddess.”
He swept forward, putting his glass in her hand.
