Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  She nodded. "That's one. Take a step farther back and tell me the other one. Why is your battleship in this system?"

  Shan sighed, shifting his shoulders inside the hot, heavy suit. He emphatically did not want any more questions from this abrupt, sour-faced woman. He wanted a shower. He wanted his lifemate, his ship, and the familiar routine of the trade route. None of which he was likely to receive in the near future, if ever again, though the shower might just be possible, if he were polite and answered the sub-commander's questions.

  So.

  "Family business. My clan is allied to Erob, and I have reason to believe that my brother is here."

  "Yah? Name?"

  "Val Con yos'Phelium." Shan watched her face closely, but saw no recognition there.

  "Not somebody I come across. You sure he's here?"

  "I am positive that he is here," Shan told her, the recollection of that painfully familiar music flowing from Erob's warning beacon vivid enough to raise tears. He blinked.

  "Perhaps another name," he said to Kritoulkas' glare. "Miri Robertson?"

  That meant something to her. She straightened, glare melting into astonishment. "Redhead? She's here, all right. Think she'll own you?"

  "Yes," he said, by no means sure of it.

  Sub-Commander Kritoulkas nodded.

  "OK, Captain, here's what. Gonna have to pass you upline anyhow, that being where we got folks who are real interested to hear about what things look like upstairs. We'll keep an ear on your 'boat down there and let your ship know you're among friends." Her mouth twisted a little at that. It might have been a smile.

  "Meantime, we got a shift-change coming up in about four hours, which is about enough time for you to clean up, get something to eat and a catnap. Under guard, you understand, because I'm damned if I believe you're regular military and I ain't having you endanger my people."

  A commander's natural concern was the welfare of her people. Shan's opinion of the sour-faced sub-commander rose slightly and he nodded.

  "I understand entirely, ma'am. Thank you."

  She snorted, and raised her voice, bawling for "Dustin!" A shortish Terran strode in from his post outside the tent and saluted.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She jerked her thumb at Shan. "Take this guy to draw clothes and a couple sandwiches. Shower and time-out at the medic's station. Stick close and get him to the departure squad on time."

  Dustin saluted again. "Yes, ma'am." He turned and nodded at Shan, face and eyes neutral. "OK, sir, let's go."

  He turned toward the door, heard Kritoulkas clear her throat behind him.

  "One more thing, Captain."

  He looked at her over his shoulder and, incredibly, saw her grin.

  "Damn good shooting, coming in."

  Shan lay on the hard cot, head on a crinkling, antiseptic-scented pillow, and closed his eyes. He had showered, and put on the fighting leathers provided by the quartermaster. He had forced himself to eat one of the half-dozen sandwiches Dustin had pried out of the mess tent, and had drunk several cups of water. Now, more or less alone, if one discounted the guard at the cubicle's entrance, he prepared himself to enter trance.

  He took a breath, and another, building the correct rhythm. The noises of the camp faded, his heartbeat slowed. When the time was proper, he slipped over into trance.

  Healspace is formless, a void of warm frothing fog. There is nothing but fog within Healspace—until something more is required.

  Warm within the formlessness, Shan spoke his own name. He smiled at the man who stepped out of the fog to join him, and extended a hand adorned with a purple ring to take a hand on which an identical stone flashed its facets against the fog. With the deft surety of a Master Healer, he opened a line of comfort between them.

  The turmoil he confronted was acute: Grief, joy, guilt, fury, bereavement, horror, love, confusion, repugnance. My, my, what a muddle, to be sure, but after all, demanding nothing more taxing than a Sort and a touch of reweaving. His scan found no irredeemable catastrophe, no resonance which so unbalanced the personality matrix that forgetfulness must be imposed. The matter was not at all complicated, and work could go forward at once.

  In Healspace, there is no time. There was the work, and the results of the work, Seen by Healer's Eyes. The work consumed the time that the work required. When it was done, Shan smiled at Shan, opened their arms and embraced into oneness.

  Healed and at peace, he turned in the foggy nothingness of Healspace—and checked.

  This place was not Healspace. Nor was it the medic's tent cubicle. This place was stone, strange and brooding: A vast stone cavern, or so he thought at first. Then he saw the weapons, hung orderly along the wall.

  The weapons… shimmered, in their places, as if each held its present form by whim and might as easily be something, quite, else. He focused his attention on a particular sword, and felt it slip from edge to shield, from shield to explosive, from explosive to…

  "Good moon to you."

  The man's voice was beautiful. The man, seated on a stone bench to Shan's right, was lean and hawk-faced, the black braid of his hair vanishing into the tattered shadow of his cloak. A red counter moved in his long fingers, appearing, disappearing. Appearing. Gone.

  "Good moon," Shan returned calmly, while with Healer's senses he tried to Sort this place that was no more physical than Healspace, though it certainly was not Healspace. Nor had he ever met another in Healspace, save one he had called, or who had called him.

  "Ah, but you haven't met another," the man in the cloak said, his fine black eyes glinting amusement. "I am you. Or you are me. Oh, my…" In his fingers the counter flashed and vanished. He smiled. "I can see language is not going to be useful in this conversation."

  "I'm familiar with the concept, as it happens," Shan said, reaching out with Healer's senses to touch the other. He encountered a cool smoothness very like a Healer's protective Wall. "But we can hardly become all of myself if you are shielded away."

  "Clever child. But as you say, this is not the sweet floating dream of a spellmist. This," he gestured, grandly, with one long, sun-darkened hand. A silver dagger appeared in that same hand. He considered it, shrugged and thrust it through his belt.

  "This," he repeated, drawing the word out, "is Weapons Hall. You are here because you have found it necessary to be armed. Do tell me why."

  Shan frowned, allowed himself to wonder if this after all was madness. Perhaps he was even now dying in the wreckage of the repair pod, his mind spinning a last, rich fantasy to disarm itself.

  "Nothing so precipitate," the man in the cloak said softly. "As you well know. You are strong, hale and sane. That being so, I must again ask—why come here?"

  "I don't know that I meant to come here," Shan told him. "It was necessary that I Heal myself, before I did damage. There is a war, you see, and the sub-commander is correct, damn her. I'm not a soldier. But the world is under attack. I must be able to fight. I must be able to—use all of my resources."

  "And you trained as Soulweaver, the Mother be praised." The man tipped his head. "When are you? Captain of a ship that sails between the stars, and more than a touch of the Dragon in you. And your lady is a Moonhawk. I begin, I think, to see."

  He stood, flinging the cloak behind his shoulders, revealing a shabby black tunic and patched black leggings.

  "I—we—have been here no more than six times since Moonhawk showed me the way. We've never loved the place, nor sought it out of power-lust. Time, you understand, is not very orderly, but I do believe this is the only occasion upon which I met myself here." He beckoned and Shan went forward to take the strong, calloused hand.

  "Shan is my name in your when?"

  "Yes," he said, as they walked toward the shimmering wall of weaponry.

  "In this when," the man lay his hand upon his breast, "your name is Lute. Let us arm me well."

  The world looked different, even with his eyes closed.

  The information that cam
e through shuttered eyes somehow told him it was afternoon; it also told him that one wall of the tent where he'd been allowed rest-space was in shade.

  His left arm was slightly warmer than his right—the sun was on that side of the tent.

  There were sounds, each fraught with meaning: he could hear the quiet, regular step of someone walking a guard path; he could hear an occasional low mumble of voices, which meant that he was in an area where security was a concern.

  Even the sounds he wasn't hearing meant something. He was alone in the tent, the med-tech having gone elsewhere for the moment.

  He savored the information coming in, sorted it and milked it dry of meaning, while some back corner of his mind not engaged in this vital task was explaining very calmly that these things meant nothing to him. He was a master of trade, a Healer—a peaceable fellow, really, despite his place in the line direct of a clan descended of a smuggler, a soldier, and a schoolboy.

  yos'Galan—the schoolboy's line—had always been respectable, though, in all fairness, the genes had been mixed across lines so often that it was difficult now to know where respectable yos'Galan began and pirate yos'Phelium ended.

  Outside the tent, from the sunny left, came two sets of quiet footsteps, accompanied by the low murmur of a woman's voice. He caught the word "backup" on the edge of hearing that seemed much sharper than usual, then the steps went beyond the tent and Shan realized he was ravenous.

  He opened his eyes and sat up in one smooth motion. The cubicle was as he recalled it; the remaining sandwiches still wrapped under their cool-gel.

  He made short work of them, feeding a hunger so great it was almost nausea, at the same time aware that he could always eat one of the ration bars tucked into his combat belt, if the sandwiches proved insufficient to his need.

  As he ate, he considered. He was often hungry after a visit to Healspace—perhaps a two-sandwich hunger, he thought wryly, unwrapping the last of the food Dustin had wrangled from the mess tent. When he and Priscilla had traveled so far in spirit to talk to Val Con—both of them woke starving, having lost a tenth or more of their bodies' mass. Magic, Priscilla had said then. Strong magic uses an immense amount of energy.

  So, Shan considered, polishing off the fifth sandwich with a sigh, Lute's Hall of Weapons must be very strong magic, indeed. He sat back on the cot and shook his head.

  "Shan," he murmured, mindful of ears close by, "what in the blessed name of sanity have you gotten yourself into?"

  He hadn't taken much from the Hall: a knife and a shield. Things that would serve any soldier well, Lute had said, then held out a thick manuscript. Soldier Lore was written across the face of its leather binding in the ornate characters of a language Shan was positive he didn't read.

  "Behold, the most useful of all the weapons in the hall," Lute said with a flourish. "Take it."

  Shan did, looking at his mentor—at himself—doubtfully. "It's rather heavy, if one is to be marching about. Which seems to be my next assignment."

  "Nonsense," said Lute, "it's not heavy at all." When Shan looked again at his hand, the manuscript was gone.

  It appeared that the lore of a good soldier was still with him; his bones felt steeped in it.

  Shan shook his head and, in an instinct that was in no way his own, began to take inventory.

  He had no gun, no sword, no distance weapons whatever in his belt or pouch. The blade he did have was neither a combat blade nor a bayonet, but part of a folding utility kit.

  In an emergency, however, Soldier Lore informed him, a blade is a blade, so he inspected it carefully, oddly pleased with its quality and balance. He'd held worse and used it to good purpose—he shook his head, banishing the memory that was not his—It was Val Con who had the passion for sharp edges of all types; peaceable Shan was accurate enough with his pellet-gun, but he tended to rely on Healer skill as protection from harm.

  Weapons check complete, Shan turned his mind to other details that required attention. He stood and walked out of the tent.

  "Dustin?"

  The startled guard's about-face nearly took Shan's mind off his purpose. The gun had come around—but not dangerously so.

  "Sir. I thought you were gonna sleep till the cows came home."

  "Are we expecting cows, Corporal? I didn't think…"

  "Naw," the man waved the expression away with his free hand. "Just meant I was sure I'd have to rouse you when the time came. You've got another hour or so, if you wanna catch another snooze. Sir."

  "I have slept, thank you. Is there a way I can check on the boat I came in on? It would be good to know if any messages have come through—or gone out."

  "I don't think the sub-commander wants you just wandering around. Sir. It might be better if you'd just go on back inside and—"

  Shan sighed inwardly. Soldier Lore noted that the corporal could be taken, if need be. He was measuring Shan's distance by soldier-speed, not by pilot speed.

  Abruptly, a memory flashed of Cousin Luken bel'Tarda, as un-war-like a man as one could wish.

  "All I ask," the gentle mannered merchant would say, as the child Shan tagged after him through acres of warehoused carpets, "is an honest advantage. When I have that, the other party is nearly always positive that my position is weak."

  Shan tipped his head, deliberately meek, and reached out, oh, so gently, with Healer sense, inspiring Dustin with goodwill.

  "Corporal," he said, voice and face all calm reasonableness. "I've spent the better part of a day inside my work suit inside a lifeboat. At least grant me a chance to walk around."

  Corporal Dustin blinked and Shan moved closer, looking gravely into eyes the color of nutmeg. "I suggest you take me to the departure point," he murmured. "I should get a feel for my boots, if I'm going to have to march in them."

  Dustin blinked again, glanced down at the boots the quartermaster had supplied. After a moment, he nodded.

  "Yessir. We can move in that direction. Might happen we can at least take a glance toward that spitfire of yours when we go by."

  Shan smiled and withdrew the tendril of goodwill. "Thank you, Dustin."

  They had passed several sentries, but it became quickly apparent that Sub-Commander Kritoulkas did not believe in concentrating her people in one spot. Dustin directed him this way, that way, up a series of trails, all of which showed use, but none that were obviously more important than another.

  Shan nodded to himself, pleased with the sub-commander's arrangements—and then, on the very edge of his sharpened hearing, caught a sound.

  He listened, ignoring the sound of Dustin's boots scraping against stone: a familiar sound, common in ports and cities…

  "Dustin," he said softly, "do we have heavy-lift rotor-craft on our side? Perhaps two or three of them?"

  The corporal flicked him a startled look, stopped heavily and took his hard hat into his hand. He cocked his head to one side, listening—then snatched for his belt comm.

  "Traffic," he said distinctly. "Possible copter noise, any ID?"

  "Traffic," came the quick reply. "Ear's going on. Reports to Traffic Two, thank you."

  Shan listened. The sound was distinct, now, though it was difficult to be sure of direction through the canopy of trees.

  He thought of his late spiral worldward, the rotor noise growing in his ears. From what he recalled, the sounds were coming—

  "From the coast," he said, abruptly. "At least two!"

  Dustin looked at him seriously, nodded, and thumbed his Communit again. "Traffic Two, we have estimate of two plus rotors coming from the coast."

  "Traffic Two acknowledges. The Ear says three, real low. Thanks, son." There was a slight burp then and the whisper of a new message from a dozen spots in the nearby woods.

  "This is the Dealer, this is the Dealer. Shuffle the deck, please, and cut it three ways. Player names the game."

  "Good ear, sir," Dustin nodded respectfully at him. "Best move with me. If we get separated—anyplace where there's a definit
e Y in the trail you'll find a dugout about ten meters in toward the empty side, long as you're inside the camp. Might need to hunt a bit. If there's crossing trails you should see a faint fifth trail—look on the opposite side of that."

  Shan nodded, pleased again with the sub-commander.

  By now the sound was a definite heavy chop. Coming in low. Fast and low.

  At the first Y they came to Dustin took him straight ahead into the woods. The corporal ducked low beneath a branch, and disappeared. A moment later Shan found the dugout and dropped in beside him.

  Shan felt the dugout slope deeper into the earth, could see where portions of the wall had been reinforced with local wood and branches. One of the cut branches, as tall as he and with a few gray-green leaves still clinging to it attracted his attention. He leaned against the branch. It flexed slightly, but felt sternly durable. His hand went around it comfortably…

  "This is the Dealer, this is the Dealer. We've got a three-handed game of Stone Poker. Cards are on the table. Jacks are wild. Spectators will refrain from spitting."

  Dustin nodded. "C'mon, sir. Jacks are wild means every available hand. Stone Poker means they're up toward the quarry somewhere—"

  "My boat!"

  "Yessir. Or maybe the Yxtrang wreck."

  There was a roar overhead. Dustin ducked back into the dugout. Shan, peering upward through a gap in the trees, saw three black forms lifting into the sky—heading back toward the coast in a hurry.

  "That refrain from spittin' stuff," Dustin said, easing out of the dugout. "That means no shooting til we get orders, sir."

  Shan looked at him and held out his empty hand and his stick.

  "Yessir, I know. Please follow me."

  He began to do that, then realized that the sound of the retreating rotors had changed somehow. He fell to his knees, found the gap in the sheltering branches—

  The last of the copters was moving very slowly, almost hovering. Perhaps they had spotted someone or—

  A figure appeared from the belly of the copter, sliding down a cable made visible by his motion. A second figure followed, and a third. Four…

  There were eight of them on the ground, the last having dropped a good distance as the rotor began to move away.