by Sharon Lee
Dyoli ven’Deelin actually smiled.
The master trader looked around the table.
“Does anyone find reason to disagree with Trader yos’Galan’s summary or the plan she has put forward for our success?” he asked.
No one spoke.
“Well, then. Bold hearts, forward. Our shuttle, I believe, awaits.”
Colemeno Port
Great Hall
* * *
The portmaster had gone to meet the delegation from the Dutiful Passage and escort them to the Great Hall.
In the meanwhile, the rest of the Council, with the market manager and his second, had forgathered in the hall and were talking among themselves.
“I don’t see our Warden,” tryaBent said to ivenAlyatta. “Do you suppose he won’t be coming, after all his mocking and hard words?”
“I think he will be here,” said ivenAlyatta. “Possibly something has kept him in the office—or he may have gone to consult the Oracle.”
“That would be prudent,” said azieEm, one of the Council’s more timid members. “The Oracle will be able to tell him if these people have given their true intentions.”
“Why would they not have given their true intentions?” asked ivenAlyatta interestedly. “Or have you returned to the pirate camp?”
“There was never a pirate camp,” azieEm said, frowning. “Merely, it is a very easy thing to lie the door open, and only show your true nature once you are inside the house.”
“Have you seen that pin seelyFaire is wearing?” tryaBent asked, too brightly. She looked to ivenAlyatta. “She says it’s from the time of our relocation to The Redlands.”
“Trust seelyFaire to have something from the Relocation! I would be disappointed if it were not jewelry. Is it worth anything, I wonder?”
“I wouldn’t—”
There was a slight whoosh, as if a small breeze had gotten loose in the Hall, or the Warden had arrived via teleport. Those gathered turned toward the sound automatically—and azieEm spoke, her voice loud in the sudden, shocked silence.
“Who is that with him?”
The lady—agreeably plump, with grey-stitched dark hair and a soft dreamer’s face—turned her head as if she had heard them. Smiling, she came forward.
The Warden had apparently not expected this; he had to hurry to reach her side.
“Hello, children,” the stranger said as she reached their group. “I am Bentamin’s Aunt Asta. Bentamin, introduce me, please.”
It was a perfectly ordinary request, tryaBent thought, and no reason for the black look that the Warden bestowed upon the lady, his aunt. Though there was the question of why the Warden had brought his aunt to a Council function. Well, he certainly must have cleared it with the Council Chair—
“Councilors tryaBent, ivenAlyatta, azieEm,” the Warden said austerely, “allow me to present Asta vesterGranz, my aunt, as she says. You will know her better by her official title: Oracle to the Civilized.”
The air was . . . tingling, Shan noted, as he stepped out of the shuttle. In fact, the air was crackling. Wu and Fabricant had ascended into eloquence regarding the invigorating environment of Colemeno, and Shan had done them the disservice of believing it to be hyperbole.
He took another, deeper breath, and mentally begged the research team’s pardon.
If he were himself prone to hyperbole, he would say that his blood fizzed. He noted a glistering along the edges of his shields, and opened them, very slightly.
Every nerve sparked; where he had become accustomed to muddy colors and a dull, background drone, suddenly he—
He could See again.
All around him were colors, brilliant, sharp, nuanced. He perceived textures. He heard music.
“Shan,” Priscilla said from beside him.
“Priscilla,” he answered. “Open your shields—only a fraction, mind.”
He Saw her open—no wider than a cat’s whisker—and felt her shocked delight in the moment before she closed herself again.
“This is a dangerous place,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he answered, opening his own shields wider. “But I will tell you, Priscilla, that I am well. Look for yourself.”
He felt her scan him; felt the prick of amazement through their links.
“Dear Goddess.”
Padi stepped out onto the ramp beside them.
“Why is the air—sparkling?” she asked.
“The guidebook’s invigorating atmosphere,” Shan said, and felt the weight of her gaze fall on him—on all of him.
“Why are your shields open?”
“Because I am weak and prefer to be wholly myself,” he said promptly. “Why are your shields open?”
“I am searching for context,” she told him primly.
Farther up the ramp, Mar Tyn pai’Fortana leaned close to his companion and murmured, “Dyoli, I feel—odd.”
“I feel it too, my Mar Tyn,” she responded, reaching up to touch the Ixin pin her brother had placed on her collar, testimony of her place in the clan. “As if something were . . . enhancing us.”
“Escort approaching,” Grad Elbin called from the bottom of the ramp, where he and Tima stood between them and the docks.
“So it is,” Shan said, turning to the left and sweeping a hand out, to show the rest of them the delegation moving purposefully down the dock—four persons in what appeared to be a uniform—possibly security personnel—pacing three jitneys.
“Places everyone,” Shan said gaily.
He and Priscilla went down the ramp first, followed by Padi; then Dyoli and Mar Tyn, with Karna Tivit bringing up the rear.
The jitneys stopped and a tall, brusque woman stepped out of the passenger’s compartment of the first. She, too, was wearing a uniform, subtly different from those worn by the security people. Coming forward, she produced a bow faintly reminiscent of a formal bow of welcome.
“I am Urta krogerSlyte, master of Colemeno Port,” she said.
Shan bowed in answer—trader to portmaster, whether their host recognized it or not.
“Portmaster krogerSlyte, you honor us. I am Shan yos’Galan, master trader aboard Clan Korval’s Dutiful Passage. Allow me to present Captain Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. Also, here is Padi yos’Galan, trader and my second; Healer Dyoli ven’Deelin, representing Clan Ixin, and her assistant Mar Tyn pai’Fortana.”
“We welcome all,” the portmaster declared sturdily.
She stepped to one side and gestured, showing them the jitneys.
“Will you be pleased to ride? There is a small entertainment in your honor at the Great Hall. You will meet the members of our governing council, and also the managers of the port markets.”
“Splendid!” Shan said, feeling positively exhilarated. Carefully, he closed his shields—not fully. It would not do to become inebriated on Colemeno’s fine atmosphere.
“Let us aboard then,” the portmaster said, opening the door of the jitney she had recently vacated. “Captain Mendoza, if you will do me the honor?”
The invigorating atmosphere was acting on Moonhawk. Priscilla could feel her growing stronger, even as the jitney lumbered through the port.
She had felt this sort of thing before, when power was raised in temple to create a working, to access one of the Names, or to gain the attention of the Goddess. Raising that kind—that much!—power took the concentrated and coordinated effort of many talents. Who could conceive of an entire world where power existed at those levels naturally? Goddess knew how this environment had worked upon the small talents in the time since they had been set down here. The portmaster had betrayed no particular talent to Priscilla’s quick scan, merely an increased brightness of her soul, and a structured feeling to her pattern, which became one who was responsible for enforcing regulations.
Moonhawk, however . . .
Moonhawk was growing stronger. Priscilla was also growing stronger, but that availed her nothing for her own defense. She was the vessel of the Goddess; everything
that was hers was Moonhawk’s to claim.
The jitney pulled up before a large building, its façade bright with mosaic. The door was opened, and the portmaster slid out, then Padi, and Shan. Priscilla debarked last, taking Shan’s offered hand and feeling a spark leap between them.
“Priscilla?” he murmured.
“I am—well,” she said, and did not add “too well.” Rather, she turned aside to consider the mosaic. “What fine work,” she said truthfully.
Portmaster krogerSlyte rose to the occasion.
“This art was made by Ming tawEllir, and depicts the Arrival of the Outcasts at Colemeno. It is noteworthy for both its accuracy and its beauty. There are lectures given on the history contained in this mosaic. If you are interested, we will arrange for you to attend one. Very quickly, if you look just here—”
A heavy hand gestured toward the lower portion of the scene, just off-center, to the left.
“Here, you see the ships that brought the Outcasts, two marked with the Tree-and-Dragon, and one with the Rabbit-and-Moon.”
“Clan Korval,” Shan murmured from beside her, “and Clan Ixin.”
The portmaster sighed lightly. “It demands study; it deserves study—especially from those so intimately involved in the event. Captain, we will, I swear it, find time for you to commune with the art, and to attend a lecture.”
“You are very kind,” Priscilla murmured, as Shan turned to beckon Dyoli.
“See here, Healer ven’Deelin—a ship of your clan.”
“Beautifully rendered,” Dyoli said with commendable enthusiasm. “See you, Mar Tyn?”
“I do,” he answered in his quiet way. “The artist had an eye.”
“Exactly,” agreed the portmaster, visibly gratified by this plentiful praise.
“For now, the Council’s reception awaits us. If you will kindly follow, just through this doorway . . . ”
The portside door opened and the babble of many voices ceased as if cut with a knife, everyone in the reception room beyond turning toward the widening portal.
First came Portmaster krogerSlyte, and three persons accoutered and uniformed befitting security persons entered. Security ranged themselves advantageously and promptly faded from conscious sight. The portmaster, having stepped to one side of the open door, made a wide sweep of her arm.
“I am pleased,” she said to the room in her large, carrying voice, “to present to the assembly our honored guests from the Tree-and-Dragon Trade Family.
“Here is Captain Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza.”
A tall, slim woman, short black curls framing an oval face—she bowed to the room, and stepped to the portmaster’s side.
“Master Trader Shan yos’Galan.”
A match for his captain in height, and her perfect foil in coloring. He bowed to the room, and stood aside.
“Trader Padi yos’Galan.”
Not quite so tall as the captain or the master trader but, for all of that, long in the leg, light brown hair worn in a neat tail at the back of her head. Her face, with its bold nose and decided chin, suggested that she was not merely kin to the master trader, but close kin. Like captain and master trader, her jacket bore the Tree-and-Dragon sigil on the breast.
“Healer Dyoli ven’Deelin.”
A woman of normal height, with fewer angles, her hair pale red; her jacket showed a Moon-and-Rabbit patch on the breast.
“Mar Tyn pai’Fortana.”
Here was the least imposing member of the trade party—slight, small, and instantly forgettable. His jacket bore no patch at all.
Zeni gorminAstir, Chair of Council, stepped to the center of the room.
“The Council of the Civilized is pleased to welcome our guests.”
She bowed, the entire room following suit.
The guests bowed likewise, then Master Trader yos’Galan stepped forward to engage with the Chair, while the remainder of the guests moved forward, to mingle and to make themselves known.
“Ixin!” a voice said excitedly at Dyoli’s elbow.
She turned, a pleasant expression her face, and bowed slightly to the woman before her.
“Indeed,” she said, “Ixin.” She touched the pin on her collar, and the other woman raised her hand to touch the pin on her collar.
“Cousin?” Dyoli said, which was flattery—perhaps. Or perhaps not. The other woman had . . . something in her face, something familiar. It was not entirely an Ixin face, but very nearly so.
“It may be,” the other said. “According to records held by our kin-group, we were Ixin, relocated with the others. The clan—this is in my long-ago grandfather’s diary—the clan had protected him and his heir. They would have continued to do so, but he would not have it. In the diary, it says that fear of exposure had already made him weary, and soon would make him reckless. He wanted better for his heir—a life without fear; a life in which she could live to the fullness of all her talents.
“Here, where are my manners?” she exclaimed suddenly. “I am Betya seelyFaire. Come, let us at least find you both tea, and perhaps some pastries . . . ”
Padi had drifted away from the center of the room, her eye on Father, who was positively boisterous. Priscilla was speaking politely to a sternly groomed man and a soft elder lady. She seemed subdued, though how that was possible with the very air crackling, Padi could scarcely understand.
Farther across the room, Dyoli and Mar Tyn had been captured by a woman who was guiding them to the refreshment tables.
She—
Padi . . . turned, and very nearly walked over a young woman with short-cut brown hair, merry brown eyes, and a fetching grin.
“Good-day to you, Trader Padi yos’Galan,” she said, her voice high and sweet. “I am Saru bernRoanti, assistant manager of the port market.”
“Aha!” Padi said with a grin of her own. “Just the person I was wanting to talk to!”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Saru bernRoanti. “Why don’t we find some tea and cookies and a quiet place to coze?”
“There, for an instance?” asked Padi, nodding toward a curtained corner at the far back of the room.
“Trader,” beamed Saru bernRoanti, “I believe we have made a perfect plan.”
“But you are a Healer, not a trader,” Betya seelyFaire was saying. “Do you attend the trade mission in your official capacity?”
“As I am needed,” Dyoli said, taking comfort from the presence of Mar Tyn at her side. The effervescence in the air was acting upon her in a disquieting fashion. She ought, perhaps, to seal her shields, but she did not care to stand blind in a roomful of people who were, as Padi yos’Galan had so succinctly put it, considerably wary of them.
“I am with the trade mission as a partner on the trade side, representing Clan Ixin,” she continued, focusing on Councilor seelyFaire, whom she read as genuinely interested and on the lookout for her own profit. “If the master trader’s plans bear the fruit he desires, I may be based here for some time.”
“But how exciting! What does the master trader plan?”
Dyoli cast her eyes down.
“It is not my place to speak for a master trader,” she murmured.
“No, of course not!” said the other, abashed.
Dyoli looked up and smiled.
“You might assist us with a matter of local custom and law, if you would be so very kind. You understand that there was very little information available to us concerning The Redlands. Are there prohibitions regarding talents? Will it even be possible for us to be based here?”
“Prohibitions—not as such,” said Councilor seelyFaire, serious now that she had been asked an official question. “You would each need to have your talents evaluated by the proper experts. I may perform a quick scan as we stand here, if you permit.”
Dyoli inclined her head and heard Mar Tyn, beside her, murmur, “Of course.”
There was a brief, not unpleasant, weight against her soul, and the very lightest of spicy breezes wafted over her H
ealer senses.
“So!” said the councilor with a smile. “A brief scan gives me no cause for concern. You are both entirely unexceptionable—Luck, Healing, and a tiny bit of Sight, is it? So long as you’re not an oracle, you need have no concern there!”
She laughed.
“When our ancestors arrived, there were tests administered. To tell truth, it has been so long since we had anyone wishing to settle, I don’t know if tests are—or should be—any longer required. Something else for the Council to discuss in the light of the changes the Dust has made.”
Mar Tyn stirred, and the councilor looked to him.
“I wonder,” he said slowly. “Would it be possible for us to be evaluated—fully—now? If there is something that has eluded your surface scan, we ought to know it, before the master trader puts all in train.”
Betya seelyFaire frowned slightly, then nodded.
“Yes, I see your point—very astute! If you don’t mind a ride in a jitney, I can take you to Evaluation Expert ringZun, and you can be examined immediately. One moment, only . . . ”
Her thin, pleasant face went briefly blank. Dyoli drew in a sharp breath, but before she had exhaled, the councilor was smiling again.
“Yes, we are fortunate! He is available, and we may see him at once.”
“Excellent,” Dyoli said, rising with their host. Mar Tyn was slower, and she tarried for him, whispering in his ear as they followed the councilor toward the door.
“Mar Tyn, what is this?”
“We are better out of this room,” he said. “My Luck would have it so.” He paused, turning his head to look fully into her eyes; his dazzled.
“Dyoli. My Luck—it’s changed.”
“Bentamin, fetch the captain a nice cup of tea, do, and some of those delightful fruit bars.”
The person so addressed, who had been made known to Priscilla as Bentamin chastaMeir, Warden of the Civilized, considered the elder lady for a long moment before he bowed very slightly.
“It will of course be my pleasure,” he said, with an edge to his soft words. “I will be only a moment, Captain. Aunt Asta.”
