by Sharon Lee
All bets're off, Robertson, she told herself. She slid forward, knife out.
Her melody changed again. It was denser, more brilliant, and intensely alert, as if she had suddenly slipped into a role where intuition, reflex, and intent were inexpressibly more important than thought.
As if she were-hunting.
He broke into a run, flat out and danger be damned, as the Loop leapt to full life, elucidating .85 that she was stalking the agent; .35 that she would survive the first encounter by more than a minute; .20 that she would survive at all.
Miri, Miri, Miri! He flung his will out, trying to speak to her as Shan had spoken to him. Miri, DON'T!
There was no sign that she heard; her song reached a plateau, drew in upon itself, and formed into a lance.
Heart wailing, mind cold and certain, Val Con pulled on deep-buried reserves, feeling L'apeleka and override programs and desperation fueling the fresh burst of speed. Hunch prodded him into evasive action, and the next second he saw the flash; he heard one pellet snarl by his ear as another ripped the sleeve of his jacket.
The Middle River blade was loose in its special arm sheath, ready to slide into his hand in an instant. Before him-still so far away!-he saw the agent turn, gun rising; he saw Miri coming in, low and fast and mean, knife gleaming in her hand; saw the agent take the force of her charge on his gun arm; saw the downward slice and-
Saw the gun fly away.
The agent snapped into offensive, missed his setup as Miri dodged and ducked and slashed low, trying to cut his legs out front under him, and recovered enough to slap the knife away, arcing silver into the shadows.
Miri twisted and landed on her feet, countering the next attack-blindingly fast-with a move he had taught her. The agent was surprised to meet that familiar counter: he slowed minutely, slipped in the snow, and twisted as if to regain his balance, throat exposed and defenseless.
Val Con drew one last burst of speed from somewhere, not daring to scream and risk destroying her concentration, hoping against all knowledge that the agent's misstep had been real.
Miri lunged forward and took the bait.
The agent steadied, accepted her weight and momentum, bent, spun, and completed the kill with the sureness of a man thoroughly trained.
Miri went up and over his back, arching high into the air-a thin, red-haired doll in a blue hooded jacket-and smashed down onto the hard-packed snow.
She lay utterly still.
Val Con heard himself scream even as the blade came into his hand, saw the agent bend over to make certain of his work, then saw him start back, choking and gasping. Ship be damned and kin be damned and Liad and universe and life: the crystal blade caught and held the light as it came to ready, and Val Con jumped forward to close with the murderer of his wife.
The cannonball hit him just below the knees, pitching him into the snow while a banshee voice howled in his ear, "Stay away from him! It's Cloud-poison!"
He rolled and came to his feet; one glance showed him the agent snatching something that gleamed black metal out of the snow; saw Miri completing her own roll and diving toward him again, knocking him sideways.
Heard the cough of the pellet gun and felt Miri's body go stiff, and then slack, against him.
He was alive. No second shot had been made, either to be certain of the first kill or to set up the next. Val Con shifted Miri's weight, sighted through the splash of her hair across her face. The agent was standing perhaps three feet away, gun held ready, an expression of most unagentlike vacancy on his face.
Val Con brought his attention to his lifemate, discovering a feeble pulse in the thin wrist under his finger, and a patch of sticky wetness that seeped through, coat and shirt, to his skin, that could only be blood. Her blood.
Gently, reverently, he slipped from beneath her and came with slow fluidity to his feet and faced the agent, Middle River blade held in plain view, ready for the kill.
Gun steady, the agent looked at him out of wide, soft eyes, but he seemed inattentive. Val Con hesitated, then walked forward, extended a hand, and plucked the gun away. The man blinked but offered no resistance.
"I was to have shot someone," he said, the High Tongue registering wondering confusion. "I cannot properly recall . . . I was to have shot-someone . . ."
"And so you have!" Val Con snapped, his own voice taking on the cadence of authority. "Give me your kit!"
Dreamily the agent reached around his belt, unclipped something from beneath his jacket, and held it out.
Val Con snatched it out of his hand and spun back to the small huddled shape on the snow.
The wound was just above the right breast. His hands shook as he sealed the entry and exit holes and sprayed the dressings with antiseptic. Gods, gods-so close. And what he had to give her was rough first aid, though better than the rough-and-ready assistance a local medic might offer. For surety, for complete and quick healing, it was imperative to get her to an autodoc.
"Is she hurt badly?" the agent inquired from just behind his shoulder.
Val Con spun on one knee. "Badly enough," he managed with some semblance of sanity. He considered the agent's soft eyes, dreamy face, and careless stance. Cloud, Miri had said. Memory provided the relevant bit from the Lectures. " . . . Lethecronaxion, street names: Cloud, Lethe, Now: memory inhibitor; effects lasting from one to twelve hours; physical addiction, as well as psychological need of user to shield painful associations, make Lethecronaxion among the most deadly of the unregulated drugs."
Val Con sighed. "What is your name?"
The agent looked startled; covered it with a bow of introduction. "Tyl Von sig'Alda," he said most properly. "Clan Rugare."
"So." Val Con stared deep into the pupil-drowned eyes and saw nothing but guileless confusion. "Where is your ship?"
Confusion intensified. "My-ship, sir? I-Rugare is not a . . .I have no ship-of my own. I am a pilot-for-hire, if you have a ship but do not care to pilot yourself-"
Val Con cut him off, the High Tongue shaping the words into dismissal. "I see." Miri had to have assistance, and an autodoc was so far superior to a local hospital . . .
Gylles itself did not have a hospital, the nearest being in the next town, thirty miles southeast. Too far, mind and heart clamored, while his finger tracked the thready, ragged pulse. He looked again at the agent, trying to recall if there had been a way-any way-known to his instructors to bring an individual out of a Cloud-trance.
After a moment, he gave up. If the instructors of agents had the key to unlock a mind shrouded in Cloud, they had not shared it with Agent-in-Training Val Con yos'Phelium. There was, however, something else . . .
Slowly he came to his feet, careful to keep his body between Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare, pilot-for-hire and Agent of Change, and Miri Robertson, lifemate, partner, lover, and friend. The dark, clouded eyes followed him, distant puzzlement plain on a face peculiarly vulnerable.
"Do you know me?" Val Con demanded.
The other signaled negation, half bowing. "Sir, I regret . . ."
"I am Val Con yos'Phelium." He watched for the flicker of recognition, hoping that the stimulants the man had taken were of the more powerful variety, and that the dose was sufficient to speed the Cloud through his system.
Nothing showed in face or eyes, then slowly something dawned. "Clan Korval?" he asked hesitantly.
"Exactly Clan Korval," Val Con snapped. "And this lady you have shot-in your passion to shoot someone-is my lifemate! How came you to do something so ill, man? And now you tell me you have no ship, when I know you must have, and are denying me the use of the 'doc out of murderous spite! Do you want my lifemate to die? Do you want the weight of my Balance to come down upon your head?" He leaned close and fancied he saw a glimmer of some returning sense deep in the dark, dark eyes. "Have you heard the tales of Korval's past Balances? They are true-every one!"
"Yes." The agent's voice held a note of actual ridicule. "Terrifying-the Balance dealt Plemia!"
&nb
sp; Val Con smiled. "My brother is a merciful man," he said softly. "Do you think to find me so?"
The agent leapt forward and to the side, muscles coherent and alert. Val Con twisted and got a grip on him-then lost it as the man dropped, feinted, and came up with a palm-gun. Val Con froze, watching the eyes, which were changing yet again.
The gun was steady, the face firm and full of purpose. Val Con saw the finger tighten on the trigger-and he dove, tackling the man as Miri had tackled him.
The gun discharged into the air; the agent twisted, trying to lever himself to the top; Val Con countered, grabbed the wrist of the other's gun hand, and slammed it against the hard snow until the fingers opened and the tiny weapon spun away.
Again the agent tried to twist free, to gain the advantage. But Val Con willed himself a boulder-a dead weight to pin a struggling, hasty man-got his hands around the other's slender throat, and exerted pressure.
The agent froze.
Val Con kept the pressure constant, neither increasing nor decreasing, and let the silence grow for a moment while he felt the frenzied beating of the pulse beneath his fingers. Gods, how many stimulants had the man taken? Or had the Department merely issued their most potent because one of the commander's arcane calculations had rendered acceptable the odds that Tyl Von sig'Alda would achieve mission success before the accelerants wore out his heart? "Where is the ship?" he demanded.
The man beneath his hands was silent.
Val Con dared to raise himself and look into the other's face. The black eyes glittered with an inward-looking intensity bordering on madness; the face was flushed, the muscles painfully tight. Val Con felt hope flicker. This was a state he knew well: a deep MemStim frenzy. Carefully he took his hands away from the other's throat and sat next to him in the snow.
"Agent Tyl Von sig'Alda," he said, reaching into his memory for the commander's nightmare voice and speaking the High Tongue in the dialect of Ultimate Authority. "You will report as questioned. You will speak to answer questions. You will be silent when ordered. Is that understood?"
"Understood." The ravenous eyes looked upon him without recognition; sweat dewed his upper lip and forehead, and the pulse in his throat beat fast and ever harder.
Val Con willed himself into patience, making himself consider the proper questions and the proper order of asking.
"Timeframe," he said. "Directly before tracking the target to the Winterfair. You landed and secreted your vessel, correct?"
"Correct."
"Exact location, local longitude and latitude."
sig'Alda read the numbers unhesitatingly out of a mind that could not forget them.
Val Con touched his tongue to his lips. "What measures were taken for concealment?"
"Ship's ambient field." The voice sounded a trifle breathless, as the heartbeat continued to accelerate.
"Detail other protections and solutions."
There were three, detailed entirely, while the voice grew faint and breath came in gasps.
Val Con looked at the man's face, locked as it was in his frenzy, then recalled it, in sharp counterpoint, clouded and confused. Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare . . .
"Describe, briefly, makeup and known antidotes of accelerants ingested within the last one to three hours, as well as the drugs forced upon you by Miri Robertson."
"Lethecronaxion-no known antidote. MemStim-no known antidote. Accelerant-name unknown; antidote unknown; runs system in approximately three hours."
"Loop reading!" Val Con snapped.
"Chance of Mission Success: Point oh one. Chance of Personal Survival: Point oh three . . . falling- Point oh two, oh one! Chance of Mission Success: Zero!" Horror in the gasping voice. "Chance of Personal Survival-"
"No!" Val Con slapped the mad face before him, trying to pull him out of the trance. "Tyl Von, it lies!"
"Chance of Personal Survival . . ." The pulse was beyond repair, beyond belief that any heart could beat so and not rip itself to bits.
"Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare!"
The man's body spasmed, his back arching as every muscle in his body locked, then slumped back in a bonelessness that had nothing to do with life, pulse and heartbeat gone forever.
After a time, Val Con reached out and closed the staring black eyes, then quickly and efficiently removed everything from the man's pockets, belt, and person. The leather pilot's jacket he left, despite the fact that it was not of Vandar and should not be found there.
"I will tell your Clan," he said, very softly.
He found the palm-gun and Miri's stickknife, slid them away with the other gun, went to Miri, and knelt at her side, laying his fingers against her throat.
She stirred, eyes flickering. "Skel?" she muttered. "Dammit, Skel . . ." Val Con waited, hovering over her, but the moment subsided before she came to true wakefulness.
Carefully, then, weary in bones and soul, he picked her up and began the long trudge back to the Winterfair, leaving Tyl Von sig'Alda alone and unburied on the hard, dark snow.
VANDAR:
Winterfair
The walking was all there was; that and the slender body in his arms. He listened to her breathing, agonized that it was so shallow but joyous that it continued at all. Twice more she stirred and spoke to Skel, directing him once to put her down and go on alone: "s'an order, damn you . . ."
He spoke to her then, hardly heeding what he said, and it seemed that the sound of his voice calmed her. But for most of it, he walked, fighting the snow and a sort of leeching exhaustion, as if his strength were running out a drain rather than being efficiently expended.
It took, in fact, several heartbeats for him to recognize the lanky shape and concerned face before him. He frowned, studying the blondish hair, the bristly mustache, and the myopic blue eyes. "Hakan."
"Cory," the other said carefully. He gestured. "What happened, man?"
"I-" Val Con sighed. "Miri is hurt."
"Alive?"
"Alive," he agreed, feeling the sluggish beat of her heart and hearing the rasp of her breath.
"Right. You stay here and I'll get the fair med-"
"No!"
Hakan froze then frowned. "Cory-"
"She has had-aid. The fair doctor will not do more. I-Hakan, will you take us? It is wrong to ask . . ."
Understanding dawned in the nearsighted eyes. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory. Sure she can take the ride?"
"She can take the ride," Val Con said, "to the place we need to go."
"Right," Hakan said again. He glanced around, jerking his head at an alleyway between two wooden pavilions. "Shortcut to the parking lot."
"All right," Val Con said, and started walking once more.
Hakan did not speak again until they were clear of the buildings and had started across the field that had that morning been the site of the log-pulls.
"I can carry her, you know," he said, hesitantly. "Give you a rest."
Val Con blinked. Hakan to carry her? Nonkin, when there was her own lifemate to aid her? With an effort, he perceived the kindness of it and the concern for both that had prompted it, and noted his growing weakness. It was imperative that he conserve his strength for the tasks ahead, or Miri's lifemate would fail her at the last.
He smiled up at his friend and nodded. "Thank you."
"No problem." Hakan took his burden gently and set off across the field in a consciously smooth stride.
Val Con followed, fumbling among his store of L'apeleka dances. "The Spirit Demands" presented itself and he danced two steps as he walked, his mind encompassing the whole. His heartbeat increased, though not nearly to the level that Tyl Von sig'Alda's had; his breathing deepened; his body began to work with more accustomed efficiency, drawing on stored vitamins and other reserves.
"Thank you, brother," he whispered to the memory of Edger, and stretched his legs to catch up with Hakan.
* * *
"Turn right," he said sometime later. Miri was on the seat between them, her head on his knee, a sc
ruffy lap rug tucked around her.
Hakan blinked. "Hospital's in Vale, Cory," he said with a sort of nervous patience. "That's left."
"We go right." Val Con reached into the High Tongue for the proper cadence of authority. Hakan frowned, his mouth straightening stubbornly-and, slowly, turned right.
"Thank you," Val Con said softly, but Hakan only drove on, silent.
Three times they passed spur roads going left, toward Vale and the hospital. Three times Hakan made as if to turn in that direction, and three times Val Con had his way.
The next time, he thought, seeing the determination in Hakan's face, in the set of his hands on the controls. He'll take the next road left, no matter what I say. He sighed to himself. Maddened with grief, I suppose, and don't know what I'm about.
"Skel?" Miri asked and shifted fretfully.
Val Con stroked her wild hair and touched her too-pale cheek. "Skel is not here, cha'trez. Rest now."
But she would not be soothed so easily; she moved her head on his knee and tried to toss the rug off. "Skel!" she insisted. "Damn weather. Damn weatherman. Take readings five times a day and what's the good? Weather ain't got a pattern down here, Brunner. World's comin' apart-the land's movin', Brunner-like walking on wax. Lost a squad this morning. The hill they were camped on just-fell down . . ." Her agitation was growing; Hakan glanced over and then back at the road as he touched the accelerator, his face tight with resolve.
Val Con captured the questing hand and held it tightly, one part of him trying to think how to calm her while another coldly and continually counted distance and direction. They must not overshoot the ship.
"Gonna have to ditch the machine, Brunner, you hear me? Unit's pinned-what's left. Told Liz I'd kill the gun-give 'em a chance to get out . . .What does 'galandaria' mean, anyway?"
"It means," Val Con said softly, stroking her cheek, willing her to be calm, "compatriot-countryman. Miri-it's Val Con, cha'trez-you must rest . . ."
