Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  The air crackled suddenly, and kinda fizzed. Tiny sparks swirled in the air like snowflakes.

  “Run!” the Road Boss yelled, and Rista’s legs moved all by themselves and she was running away from the doors and the Road Boss and the rest of her crew, her back to all of it.

  She heard a huge snap behind her; a blue flash dazzled her eyes. But she kept running, and she didn’t look back.

  “Well, I don’t use it,” Yulie explained, very nearly sounding sheepish. “No reason to use it; nobody comes looking for the growin’ rooms. Nobody knows the growin’ rooms’re there.”

  “Until now,” Val Con said.

  The flash of the defense system coming live had roused Jeeves to action. It had barely faded when Nelirikk and Diglon arrived on the scene. They’d trussed up the unconscious prisoners and carefully emptied their pockets. Nelirikk called the Watch, and he and Diglon stood guard while Val Con trudged up to the house, running his hands through his hair to dislodge any stray twigs and grasses that might have lodged there while he was rolling away from the pressure door. The coat, he feared, was ruined. He hoped Miri hadn’t become very fond of it.

  Yulie sighed. “Guess I’m gonna have to keep it goin’, then. Generator’s good for a couple hunnert years, that’s what Grampa figured, and I do the service, just like it says in the binder.”

  “Why keep it turned off, then?” Rys asked.

  “Well, the cats. Cats don’t have good sense ’bout things, sometimes.”

  “True,” Val Con said. “Perhaps a perimeter device may be constructed. Shall I send Tan Ort to you? He may have something to suggest.”

  Yulie pursed his lips, and stared at the man trussed up in ropes like a piglet in the middle of his kitchen floor.

  “When he’s got a minute or two to spare,” he said to Val Con. “Smart as he is, he just might be able to figure something out.”

  “I will ask him to come to you, then.”

  “The grapes,” Rys said, into the small silence that followed this, “have taken no harm?”

  Yulie shook his head.

  “Really like them grapes, do you? I can give you s’many as you want.”

  “Do not say that to him,” Val Con warned. “He’s a vintner.”

  “Is he?” Yulie looked at Rys with renewed interest. “Maybe you could make wine outta them grapes. Good way to store ’em.”

  Rys smiled at him. “Indeed; an excellent way to store them.”

  “Reminds me . . .” Yulie crossed the kitchen and pulled open a cabinet, taking down a rather hefty utility binder. He flipped it open and leafed through the pages, until he suddenly nodded and brought the binder to the table.

  “That piece o’paper you brought down here? ’Member that?”

  “Yes,” Val Con said.

  “Well, I looked it up, right here, an’ it says that land your brother”—he looked up and nodded at Rys—“that brother?”

  “I have several brothers, I fear. The brother who is interested is away from home at the moment, and asked me to handle this business for him. Shan, his name is.”

  “Right, then. Well, ’cordin’ to the binder, here, that land is where the Commissary Supply Whole Planet Foods was planned to go, when everything was set up and the company did its expansion, ’cept the company left and didn’t expand, so there wasn’t no need for the second one. An’ why Grampa’s name’s on that lease is that him an’ Gramma was in the bidness together, evens.”

  He closed the book and nodded.

  “Your brother Shan, he wants that land, he can have it. Never did get the ’quipment down for the second Commissary. That was in expansion money. Might be they started on excavating for the growin’ rooms, but maybe not. No sense to it, ’til you got the ’quipment.”

  “Mr. Shaper, I feel very strongly that my brother will wish to compensate you correctly for the land—your inheritance, after all!—and to write a contract listing out what each side gives and gains, so that there is no confusion.”

  Yulie closed the binder and shrugged.

  “He wants to do all that, fine. ’S’long as he takes care of the contract-writing. Makes him feel better to give me somethin’, he can give whatever he wants. I don’t need nothin’, and you been a good neighbor. Can’t buy that.”

  Val Con took a deep breath and let it out as the sound of a car turning into the dooryard reached him.

  “The Watch,” Rys said from the door.

  “’Bout time,” said Yulie Shaper.

  Droi had spent her day among the dreams of ancients, searching for a communication protocol. The old indexing systems were not necessarily accurate; consequently, her search had not been a quick one.

  It was, however, eventually fruitful, which filled her with an unreasonable sense of pride. Pulka had praised her skill, which meant something, for Pulka was not nearly so generous with his praise as he was with his criticisms.

  Not that she cared what Pulka thought.

  The dreaming had left her exhausted; the older dreams were not always easy to understand, and when the thing that was wanted was specific, the search was made more taxing.

  All that being so, her head and back hurt, and her stomach was unsettled. She sat alone by her hearth, and thought of lying down to sleep, but she was far too tired to do so.

  “Good evening, daughter,” the luthia spoke from near at hand. “May I share your hearth?”

  A request from the luthia to share the hearth was no request at all. That the luthia had come, of herself, to Droi’s hearth, rather than calling Droi to her—that was . . . notable.

  So.

  She pulled her scattered wits to her and sat up straighter.

  “Please sit with me, Grandmother. I will fetch tea.”

  There was no tea made; she had been too tired even for that. But the luthia at her hearth . . .

  “Peace, child. I brought tea, and something for us to share, if you will eat with me.”

  Droi shivered, and patted the rug at her side.

  “Please,” she said again. “I welcome your company.”

  Silain came forward, and placed the basket she carried before folding stiffly onto the blanket.

  “Ah,” she sighed, and used her chin to point. “Serve us, daughter.”

  Droi opened the basket, poured tea from the pot into two battered mugs from Silain’s own hearth. She untied the rag, and spread it between them, revealing soft, fresh rolls, and creamy squares of cheese, with some unfamiliar green berries that smelled salty and sharp.

  “Kezzi’s mother in the City Above now and then sends a basket, to honor a grandmother.”

  That was well done. All that Droi had heard of Kezzi’s mother in the City Above spoke of a strong woman who was also courteous and modest. The changes, subtle, but powerful, in Kezzi’s dress and manner also spoke of the influence of a wise woman. Kezzi herself said that her brother Syl Vor’s mother was a luthia.

  “I find you alone,” Silain said, after they had sipped their tea, and each had chosen a soft roll with a bit of cheese. “I hear, from others of my children and grandchildren, that Droi is often alone, and I wonder, my daughter, if this is a passing season, brought to you by the child?”

  “Grandmother, it may be so. I . . . frighten my brothers and my sisters, and, sometimes . . . I frighten myself. It seems best to be alone, except when I am useful to the kompani.”

  “The Bedel say that we are of use because we are the Bedel. We need do nothing else except be who we are, for we are beloved of the universe.”

  This was a thing that the Bedel did say, and thus there was nothing to say to it. Droi sipped her tea, finding a thread of sweetness. She sipped again, seeking the flavor again, and savoring it. Her tongue, luthia-trained, found it to be feenil, which was given to strengthen a pregnancy.

  She looked up, her heart in her mouth.

  “Grandmother?”

  “Peace, it is only an old woman’s meddling. It will do good, if there is good to be done; and no harm, if not.�
��

  She plucked one of the green fruits up, and put it in her mouth, eating it with every appearance of enjoyment.

  “This desire to be of use,” she said. “I saw that in you when you were my apprentice. It seems to me a good thing; and one shared by all who would become luthia.”

  “And yet,” Droi said, her tongue perhaps loosened by the feenil, “I am not fit to be luthia.”

  Silain looked up, surprise in her face. She leaned forward and grasped Droi’s hand between both of hers.

  “Droi. Daughter. You are more than fit to be luthia. That you should think otherwise—I am ashamed.”

  “You set me aside, Grandmother!”

  “I did, yes. For this kompani, in this time, you would be the wrong luthia, which is far different than being no luthia at all.”

  “What difference, when there is only this kompani, and this time?”

  Silain smiled. She patted Droi’s hand, and let her go.

  “Time flows, bringing changes. But, enough. You are tired, and the feenil is working. I have come to you with a purpose. In the City Above, there are two wise women who seek to bring together the several families of gadje into one family.”

  Droi sniffed, disdainfully. “It is not possible.”

  “I think that it might be,” Silain said. “I don’t think it will be easy, but these are strong women, with determined hearts. In order to do their best in the task they have set themselves, they need to understand what this world was meant to be. We, the kompani, hold dreams from an earlier time which might help them.”

  “You would give the gadje our dreams?” Droi raised her hand to cover a yawn.

  “No, for, as they admit, they are not dreamers. I have said that you will help them. You will go to them, and they will tell you what they seek. Then, you will dream and bring to them those things that will aid them.”

  Silain paused to sip tea, and added, gently, “You would be of use, daughter.”

  It might have been the feenil, or it might have been curiosity, to see these gadje wise women who sought to heal a world with dreams.

  “I will go to them.”

  “Good. Udari will guide you, when you are ready.”

  She wanted to protest, but surely the feenil was at work.

  “Yes, Grandmother,” she said, and raised her hand before another yawn.

  “I will see you to your bed,” Silain said. “Kezzi will make the hearth orderly, and sleep in the tent tonight.”

  She rose, docile as a child, leaving the remains of the meal and the tea. She took her grandmother’s hand, and together they went into the tent.

  Later, comforted by blankets, and drowsy with warmth, she heard her name spoken, and looked up into Silain’s eyes.

  “I have a thing for you, child,” the luthia said. She brought forth a chain, and on it, a set of tiles in that pattern that denoted a personal history.

  The feenil softened the pain; but it did nothing to blur her Sight.

  “Rys?” she whispered. “He has left us . . . already?”

  “Time flows,” Silain crooned, “fast and slow.” She bent and slipped the chain around Droi’s neck, tucking the tiles close.

  “Keep it safe,” she murmured, and lay her hand across Droi’s eyes.

  “Sleep,” she said, and Droi tumbled headlong into darkness.

  INTERLUDE TEN

  Vivulonj Prosperu

  In Transit

  Cool air stroked her face, the scent of mint tingled in her nose; somewhere, a chime sounded, soft and continuous.

  Her right hand rested on a hard, slick surface; her left on chilly flesh. She swallowed, tasting more mint, and opened her eyes.

  Above her, a bright white ceiling, partly occluded by the curve of an opaque black hood.

  She considered it placidly, waiting . . .

  “Good day to you, Pilot.”

  The voice—was somewhat familiar. She turned her head, and raised her eyes.

  A man stood beside the place where she lay. His face, like his voice, was somewhat familiar. She had seen him, she thought, not too very long ago.

  A name slipped into her waiting mind.

  “Uncle Arin?”

  Eyebrows lifted.

  “Uncle,” he agreed. “Arin long ago took his own path.”

  There seemed nothing to say to that, so she waited some more, beginning to be cold now, and slightly less placid.

  “Would you care to exit the unit?” asked the man named Uncle. “There are clothes, here. In the antechamber, there are tea and sandwiches. I give you my word that these things are untainted, and will do you no harm.”

  It did come to her, then, that this man was not always trustworthy. However, there seemed no utility in lying naked in the cool, mint-scented breeze, and she was, she realized, very hungry.

  “I will rise, and dress,” she said. “And then I will eat.”

  At this, he bowed, and withdrew from her ken, to the antechamber, she supposed.

  She rolled slowly off the mat and stood, finding carpet beneath bare feet, and a sweater and slacks folded over a nearby chair. Ordinary ship clothes, save for the lack of boots, or soft shoes. There was no mirror, which was unfortunate, since she recalled, as if it had happened a very long time ago, that Daav had been . . . quite badly hurt. Of course, Uncle had placed them in the autodoc, so apparently the body had not been beyond hope of help. But how odd, she thought, reaching for the sweater, that she should have awoken ascendant.

  Her peace . . . rippled, then, as if a placid pond had been disturbed by the passage of a cold breeze.

  Where was Daav?

  The conditions of her existence for so many years had been . . . enclosed by Daav. She, least of anyone, knew where, or how, she existed within her lifemate’s brain, but exist she did.

  Always before there had been a sense of Daav about her, even when she was ascendant and he asleep. Now . . .

  Her sense now was that . . . she was alone. The inside of her head felt airy and light, as if she were newly arrived, and had not yet left thoughts cluttering the tabletops, or rustling in dark corners.

  Indeed, there were no dark corners, as she perceived her condition.

  She took a deep breath of cool, minty air, and looked down.

  Small, high breasts, a girl’s flat belly, sweet, unused feet with pearly nails.

  This was not the body she shared with Daav. This was—

  The man called Uncle was a clone, she recalled suddenly. He was impossibly old, having serially transferred himself—his personality and at least some of his long memory—into new bodies for hundreds of years; Cantra’s Diaries would have it that he had embraced the practice even before the Migration.

  She was shivering and panting as if she had run from Solcintra to Chonselta. The mint-flavored air suddenly nauseated and cloyed.

  Hand trembling, peace shattered, she caught up the waiting clothes and pulled them on. Behind her was an unsealed door. She marched through it into a small chamber where a table was set with teapot and cups, and plates with tiny sandwiches in the shapes of fish and flowers. There were two chairs at the table. The man named Uncle was not in either of them, though he was standing behind one.

  At her entrance, he raised both of his hands, as if he would soothe her.

  “Please, Pilot.”

  “Please?” she retorted, but the edge of her fear was gone, evaporating in the scent of mint.

  She stepped forward and frowned up into his face. “Are you calming me?” she demanded.

  “I am, and I beg you will forgive it. My excuse is that your anger, fully experienced, might endanger your lifemate’s existence.”

  She froze at that, and quickly ran the Scout’s Rainbow, for inner calm.

  Uncle smiled.

  “Where is Daav?” she asked then, though her stomach clambered for one or even four of the pretty little sandwiches.

  “He sleeps in a unit much like the one from which you have just now arisen. His danger is not so acute that
you cannot eat. In fact, I must insist that you eat, Pilot. Your new situation is extremely efficient, but it does require sustenance. You must also reacquaint yourself with food. Please.”

  She sat, and he did. He poured tea into her cup, and into his. She thanked him with a nod, picked up one of the fish-shaped sandwiches and bit into it.

  Sensation flooded her mouth, overwhelming all of her senses, whiting her vision. She may have cried out. When the flavors had faded, and she knew herself again, she reached for her cup—and thought better of it.

  “You gave your word,” she said to Uncle.

  “I did, and it is good. You are unharmed. You are also . . . new. It will take you some time to accommodate yourself to ordinary sensation. Please, Pilot. Drink your tea and have another sandwich. Your lifemate needs you strong and able.”

  The tea was blessedly uncomplex, after which the second sandwich produced a lesser overload. She managed a third with hardly any interference at all, and drained her cup to the dregs.

  “I will see Daav now,” she said, and the Uncle rose at once.

  “This way, Pilot.”

  The room was the twin of the room she had wakened in, dominated by what was perhaps not an autodoc, with a chair set in one corner, holding, as had the chair in her room, a simple set of ship clothes.

  “You must understand,” Uncle said quietly, “that, in the case, we had material to work with, and thus he looks . . . like himself, you might say, though perhaps younger than you have known him. Yourself . . .” He looked down at her. “We used the vessel to hand—a blank, we term it. My experience is that you will eventually come to look more as you had done, previously, as the body takes its cues from the personality. I will tell you that you are fully transferred, and we experienced no difficulty whatsoever in the process. Your Daav, however . . .” He moved a hand, inviting her to step closer to the unit.

  The unit with its red-lit readouts and—startlingly familiar—standard life-gauge, showing a blue bar hovering at well below half, a cat’s whisker above nonviable.