A Liaden Universe® Constellation, Volume 4

by Sharon Lee

Straightening, she added a rapid sentence, that Gaina guessed was some order of thank you.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “You come again, anytime you like. But you don’t get no cookies unless you’re wearing your coat, unnerstan me?”

  She pouted, damn if she didn’t, but answered, “Unnerstan.”

  “Good,” she said, and turned her head, eye drawn by a movement.

  Donnie was making his own bow.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will demonstrate. For the moment, we are wanted at home.” He held out a hand.

  “Come, Elaytha.”

  She took his hand. They turned to the door—and paused, as it opened to admit Luzeal.

  “’Morning,” she said, giving the two of them a nod and a smile before passing on. “Gaina, I’m starving! Got any mint rolls?”

  “When don’t I got mint rolls?” she asked, as Donnie and Elaytha exited the shop. “Got something else, too—want you to give it a try.”

  • • • • • •

  Luzee was carrying a three-ring binder under one arm like she’d taken to doin’ ever since the call came out from the Lady and the Perfessor for old records, old letters, old books—all and anything.

  Luzeal’s family, they’d been in the way of managing the Office of the Boss, ’way back when the Agency was still on-world, and the Boss—the really big Boss, who oversaw it all—was called The Chairman. Even though they’d left her just like they left everybody, Luzeal’s great-grandma’d organized a rescue operation, and moved all The Chairman’s papers, and files, and memory sticks and, well—everything, down the basement of their own house, so it’d all be safe.

  Which, Algaina admitted, it had been, all this time. Safe as houses, like they said. Safer’n most people’d been, includin’ Luzee’s grandma, who’d got herself retired by standin’ in front of The Chairman’s front door and tellin’ the mob of Low Grades they couldn’t come in.

  Luzeal headed right for the hot-pot. She drank the first cup down straight, just like every morning, and brought the second over to the little table in the corner, so her and Algaina could talk while one et her breakfast and t’other minded the oven.

  Algaina set the roll out on a plate, and ducked into the back to take the next batch out. More rolls, this was; rolls was the best she could do, not havin’ a mother-of-bread, like grandpa’d wrote about in his card file. That was all right; her rolls were good an’ hot for breakfast, and she was best at making cookies and simple sweets. Sometimes, though . . . she shook her head as she brought the tray out into the shop.

  Just as good to wish for flowers in a blizzard, Algaina, she told herself.

  Luzee had broken her roll in half, and was busy at breakfast. Algaina slid the fresh tray into the case, then went down to the end of the counter to pour herself a cup of ’toot.

  “Was that the Wayhousers, just now leaving?” Luzee asked.

  “Couple of ’em, anyhow. Little girl give ’er sister the slip an’ gone splorin’. Big brother come lookin’ for ’er. Too bad it was Roe Yingling in here when they come.”

  Luzee frowned.

  “He didn’t get ugly with a kid?”

  “He coulda been less rude, but nothin’ past talking too loud.”

  Luzeal sighed, and picked up her cup.

  “He’s a neighbor, but sleet, I wish that man would learn not to say everything jumps into his head.”

  “Day that happens, I’ll make a cake for the whole street,” Algaina said, and nodded at the binder on the table. Most of Luzee’s binders had seen work, but this one looked downright rough. There were bits o’paper hanging out the edges, including a strip of ragged red cloth, and its edges were banged up like somebody’d thrown it up against a wall—or a head—more times than twice.

  “Looks like that one’s seen some fun,” Algaina said.

  “This?” Luzee put her hand on the old binder. “Now, this is the Human Resources manual, all the rules about how the company and the employees was s’posed to act in just about every situation you can think of, an’ a couple more you can’t. Got lists, pay grades, holidays, memos—I ’spect the Lady’s gonna be real glad to get the one—I was up all night reading it and more’n half a mind not to let it go!”

  “Agency’s long gone,” Algaina pointed out. “An’ I’m not sure we need a rule book that don’t say, right up at Number One: Don’t desert your people to die, f’all you ever knew or cared.”

  There was a small silence while Luzee finished her roll.

  “Actually,” she said, putting her hands around her mug and meeting Algaina’s eye. “It does say that. There’s a whole evac procedure. They coulda done it—they coulda took everybody offa here, there wasn’t no disaster nor any reason they had to make hard decisions. They was s’posed to’ve took everybody.”

  Algaina stared at her.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why’d they leave us? My grandad always said there wasn’t room . . .”

  “Turns out,” Luzee said; “there’s room, and then there’s room.”

  She took a long swallow from her mug and pushed back from the table, heading for the hot-pot. Algaina picked up one of the sparemint cookies and bit into it, chewing slowly, trying to figure out what Donnie Wayhouse had found missing . . .

  “What they did,” Luzee said, coming back to put the mug on the table, “was a cost-benefit analysis. And it come out that it was more . . . well, fiscally responsible’s bidness-talk for it. Means they figured it’d be cheaper to leave everybody below Grade Six right here on Surebleak, and declare a loss on the equipment. Woulda put ’em in the red for years, an’ given ’em a disadvantage with Corporate, if they’d brung all of us away.”

  She took a hard breath, and put her hand on the beat-up binder. “It’s all in here—the original policies, and notes and the votes from the meetin’s that rescinded ’em. Dates, names . . .”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s what made me decide the Lady needs this more’n I do.”

  Names and dates. The way Luzeal told it, the Surebleak Historical Search and Archival Liberry din’t think there was nothin’ better’n names and dates.

  “What’re those?” Luzee asked, nodding down at the sparemint cookies.

  “Hermits. Had the receipt in my granddad’s box, but couldn’t never get raisins, is what they’re called. Always wondered what they’d taste like—the raisins and the cookies. Yesterday, I was at market, and freeze me if there weren’t a whole bin o’raisins just come in.”

  She grinned.

  “Couldn’t just let ’em set there, could I?”

  “Not you!” Luzee said, grinning back. “That what you want me to taste?”

  “If you got time. Try one and see what you think.”

  Luzee chewed thoughtfully.

  “S’good,” she said eventually. “Crunchy. You gonna be able to do these reg’lar?”

  “I’ll talk to the grocer next time I’m in; see what we can and can’t do. I got a couple receipts in that box wantin’ raisins. I’ll look ’em out. In the meanwhile, we’ll find does anybody else like ’em.”

  “Hard to think anybody wouldn’t,” Luzee said, finishing hers and eyeing the tray.

  Algaina handed her another cookie.

  “Thank’ee. I tell you what, Gaina—you oughta take that box down to the archive.”

  “That box is my livelihood! ’sides what’s a buncha receipts gonna tell the Lady—or anybody else?”

  “Well, this one right here’d tell ’em raisins used to be usual ’nough they got put in cookies—more’n one kind of cookie—and here you never seen ’em your whole life until just now—nor me, neither!”

  “Still—giving away my receipts! I don’t got ’em all by heart, now do I?”

  “See, now, if you tell ’em you’re bringing a working document, they’ll make a copy and give you the original back. You take ’em in a plate o’these cookies and tell ’em how they was last made in your grandad’s day, they’ll see the importance o�
��them receipts.”

  “Anyways, it’s what I’m planning on doin’ with this book here.”

  “You want a copy of all the old rules the old bosses voted out when they wasn’t convenient? For what?”

  “Well, I ain’t finished reading it, for one! For t’other, there’s maybe things in here we could adapt for the Surebleak Code, like the Lady talks about. It was the Human Resources manual, after all, an’ far’s I know ’bleakers and newbies is all human.”

  A bell pinged in the back, and Algaina went to bring out the next batch. When she came back out, Luzee’d finished her coffeetoot, an’ was pulling her hat down over her ears.

  “Gotta get goin’. You wanna take that box to the archive, I’ll come with you, whenever you decide.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Algaina said, and watched her out the door.

  • • • • • •

  Kevan had a nightmare again.

  Don Eyr woke him, and sat at his bedside, holding his hand until he stopped shaking, and answered the questions that kept him awake most nights; answered them to soothe and heal. Not lies; he did not lie to the children, and less so to a comrade. But where there were no facts, there a heart might build light and airy palaces of hope.

  So, for Kevan, and for himself, he answered—no, there had not yet been word from Serana; not from Ail Den nor Cisco nor Fireyn. Yes, it was worrisome. But only recall how confused and dangerous it had been in Low Port when Korval’s mercenaries arrived.

  So four of their house’s defenders had gone to show the mercs the alleys and back ways, that they might flank the approaching forces and deny them Low Port.

  Don Eyr might have been with them—Jax Ton and Kevan, too. They had the right, and just as much knowledge of the streets as the others. But head of house security—Serana herself—had counted them off; three to go with her to guide the mercs; three to keep the children safe.

  Serana had more lives than a cat; she said it herself, and certainly she had survived—they had both survived—desperate situations before they had arrived in Low Port, and became the defenders of youth.

  Surely, Serana was alive. Was well. Don Eyr did not accept a universe in which these things were not facts.

  No more than Kevan might come to terms with a universe that lacked the living presence of Ail Den.

  And so, in that small space of uncertainty, where the truth was not yet known, they had each built a palace of hope.

  Kevan was nodding off, his grip softening; Don Eyr heard a soft step behind and turned his head as Ashti came to his side, holding a cup of tea and a book.

  “I’ll stay with him,” she said, the low light waking sparks of red along her cropped hair.

  He slipped his hand free, and stood, flexing his fingers, looking down at the boy.

  Ashti put her hand on his arm.

  “Sleep, Don Eyr,” she murmured. “We need you.”

  Not for much longer would they two, at least, need him, he thought, though he did not say so to her. She and Kevan were old enough, able enough; the younger ones trusted them. He might leave, and have no fear for any of them—but he would not leave. Not yet; not while there still remained some hope that Serana, and the others, would find them.

  He left Kevan in Ashti’s care, but he did not seek his own bed.

  Instead, he walked through the crowded rooms, checking on each sleeper, straightening merc-issue blankets, picking up fallen pillows, smoothing the hair of those who moved uneasily on their narrow cots; and once stopping to murmur a few words in Liaden.

  Their daytime language might now be Terran, but Liaden was the language of home, no matter how little they had been cherished there, and it soothed the fretful back to sleep.

  Satisfied that all was well with the children, he descended to the kitchen, where he found the teapot warm and a cup set by. He smiled, recognizing Ashti’s hand, and poured himself a cup, which he carried to the window.

  The street was a short one, sparsely lit by what a daylight inspection had revealed to be self-adhesive emergency dims. One might wonder who had put them up, and who replaced them, but in that Surebleak was like the Low Port: Someone had taken up the task, for reasons known to themselves, which might or might not have anything to do with the common good.

  Halfway down the street, a brighter light flared, and he stepped back against the wall before his laggard brain realized that it was not muzzle-flare, but only the light coming on in the sweet-bake shop.

  He sighed and shook his head. This place . . .

  The unit commander charged with seeing them to safety had chosen to interpret her orders liberally, the children having quickly become favorites, and the mercs having no opinion of Low Port. Thus, their eventual arrival at Surebleak, deemed a damned sight safer’n where we found you. No offense. Sir. The mercs had seen them generously provisioned, and brought them to the attention of the proper civilian authorities, who took their application and the character reference provided by the unit commander, settled them into transitional housing, and located a ’prenticeship for Jax Ton.

  Don Eyr sighed. He was, indeed, grateful to the mercs for their care, which had included putting messages through their internal networks, for Ail Den, Cisco, Fireyn, and Serana.

  He closed his eyes, and sipped his tea, deliberately turning his thoughts toward the future.

  They would need to find larger quarters within three local months. That was the limit of the local authority’s charity, and more generosity than Liad had shown any one of them. He hoped to hear of opportunities, when Jax Ton came to them for his day off.

  For now, then, they were well-fixed. Locating a more suitable establishment and employment were high on the list of things to be done. The most urgent item on that list, however, was Elaytha.

  Elaytha had been theirs from a babe, pulled from a pile of wreckage that had once been an apartment house; the only survivor of the collapse. She had been odd from the first, and remained odd as she grew. Her mind was good; she could read, and cipher, and follow directions. She could speak—Liaden, Terran, and Trade—though she preferred her own tongue, which she shared with no one else they had ever found. She was sweet-natured, and her ability to mime was nothing short of astonishing.

  She also had a tendency to wander, heedless of hour or weather, and was afflicted with odd terrors. Lately, she had achieved a horror of food, and would cower away from a bowl of cereal as if from an assassin.

  Perhaps worse, she had since arriving in this place, become convinced that there were . . . shintai, as it was said in her tongue, which he understood to be akin to ghosts, upon the street, who required her care. The others tried to dismiss it as play, but, if so, it was like no other play in which she had previously indulged.

  Ashti suggested that Elaytha was merely framing the strangeness of their new situation in her own terms. For himself, he feared that she was delusional.

  Don Eyr left the window to pour himself another cup of tea.

  Elaytha needed a Healer, he thought, carefully.

  On Liad, that thought would not have been possible. In Low Port, the situation would have been hopeless. The Healers did not administer to the clanless.

  He could not have said why he thought the Healers who had come to Surebleak might deal differently, unless it was merely that, Surebleak had dealt them a hand, when Liad had refused even to sell them a deck.

  He would ask Jax Ton to also find them information regarding the Healers of Surebleak. He sighed. Perhaps, instead, he ought to send one of the elder children to bear Jax Ton company, and to find the answers to all of Don Eyr’s questions . . .

  He carried his tea back to the window. The sky was brightening; the emergency lights a fading reflection. Down the street, the window of the sweet-bake shop blazed like a sun, which brought to mind the fact that he had not fulfilled his promise to the baker. One needed to deal fairly with one’s neighbors. Neighbors were important, for those who had neither kin nor clan to shield them.

  Ash
ti would scold him for not going back to bed, but, truly, baking was every bit as restful as sleep. Moreso, now that he slept alone.

  Turning away from the windows, he set the tea cup aside, and began to assemble his ingredients.

  • • • • • •

  The bell rang while she was in the back, and Algaina called over her shoulder.

  “Make yourself at home; just gotta get this batch in the oven!”

  There was no answer, but Luzeal was prolly more’n half-asleep still, at this hour. Algaina glanced at the clock. It was some early for Luzee, but—sleet, it was early for her, if it come to that. It’d been one of them nights where bad memories come slipping into your sleep, pretending like they was dreams.

  Just as good—better—to be baking, than laying flat in the bed staring up the ceiling, and afraid to close your eyes. So, she’d gotten dressed and come downstairs, started the oven up and pulled a recipe out from the old box without looking at it.

  Turned out it was a cake she hadn’t made but once before, on account it was so fussy. Well, good. Fussy was just what she needed.

  She slid the pans in, closed the oven and set the timer.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped out into the shop.

  “You’re early for the rolls—” she started to tell Luzeal . . .

  ’Cept it wasn’t Luzeal in the shop at this early hour of the day.

  Standin’ all solemn right in front of the counter was the little girl from yesterday—Elaytha. Her hair’d been combed and braided, and her red coat was buttoned up against the cold. She was holding a covered plate in two ungloved hands, and smiling to beat the sun.

  Just behind her was an older girl, with a good knit cap pulled down over her ears, hands tucked into the pockets of her short jacket—no gloves there, either, Algaina was willing to say. Well, that was easy ’nough to fix. She had the kids’ old gloves an’ mittens that they’d outgrown. Might as well they got some use. If you didn’t look out for your neighbors, who’d look out for you?

  “You coulda set that down, got yourselfs a cup of something hot,” she said now, looking from one to the other of ’em.

  “That’s what make yourself at home means.”