Mouse and Dragon

by Sharon Lee

  "Thodelm yos'Galan trades," Aelliana said. "Anne told me he was to leave on a trip at the end of this twelve-day."

  "So he does and so he is. Er Thom is the very spirit of discretion—and I, my lady, am very much his opposite number."

  Surprisingly, she smiled. "Then I will learn that, too."

  He laughed, and raised her hand to his lips. Teasing her fingers open, he kissed her palm, then looked into her face. Gods, she was beautiful, with her eyes reflecting the strength of her will, and her determination plain in her face.

  "I will have to research it," he said slowly, "and I must speak with Er Thom. It seems to me that there was once a system that allowed Korval's delm to, as you say, hold employment. For today, however, let us assume that the thing might be managed, someway. Are you at liberty?"

  "I am entirely at your disposal," she told him solemnly. "What do you propose?"

  "That we take ourselves to Binjali's and inventory your ship. I lean towards courier, but I wish to refresh myself on certain measurements."

  "Our ship," Aelliana said, and stood in one fluid movement, pulling him up with her. "Let us, by all means, go to Binjali's."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Melant'i—A Liaden word denoting the status of a person within a given situation. For instance, one person may fulfill several roles: parent, spouse, child, mechanic, thodelm. The shifting winds of circumstance, or "necessity," dictate from which role the person will act this time. They will certainly always act honorably, as defined within a voluminous and painfully detailed code of behavior, referred to simply as "The Code."

  To a Liaden, melant'i is more precious than rubies, a cumulative, ever-changing indicator of his place in the universal pecking order. A person of high honor, for instance, is referred to as "a person of melant'i," whereas a scoundrel—or a Terran—may be dismissed with "he has no melant'i."

  Melant'i may be the single philosophical concept from which all troubles, large and small, between Liad and Terra spring.

  —

  From "A Terran's Guide to Liad"

  Trilla, Jon's second, was on-shift, with a Scout introduced offhandedly as "Vane," which was the mode, at Binjali's.

  "Pilots, welcome!" Trilla called, riding a rope down from the catwalk. She landed lightly and came toward them, an unabashed grin splitting her dark, Outworld face.

  "Pilot Daav, you're looking well. Pilot Caylon . . . you're looking very well indeed, if a sparring partner may say so! Have you a moment to dance?"

  "I—" Aelliana hesitated, torn between the desire to try her new self against Trilla's skill and the desire to find The Luck and discover its part in her destiny.

  "Perhaps . . ." she began—and stopped, turning her head to track the flicker of motion to her left, near the entrance to Jon's office—

  A blur of leathers was all she saw, only that.

  "Clonak!" she cried, entirely certain that it was he. "But—"

  Daav caught her fingers; she felt concern, unhappiness, and worry. He released her with a smile that looked genuine, though surely, she thought, it must be false.

  "I will go and find him, while you and Trilla dance."

  "There's a bargain," Trilla said, a shade too heartily, to Aelliana's ears. "Come, Pilot, I've had a dull morning—enliven it for me!"

  * * *

  "Clonak."

  Jon's office was dim, the only light the glow from the work screen. A stocky figure was outlined in that glow, shoulders rounded and face tipped downward, ostensibly absorbed in whatever was on the screen.

  Three steps beyond the door, Daav paused and recruited himself to patience, counting slowly, his hands in plain view, his stance easy and comfortable. Nothing to challenge a heart-struck and dangerous man, should he look up to see who bore him company.

  The stocky figure at the computer never raised his head.

  On the stroke of one hundred forty-four, Daav took a careful breath.

  "Old friend?"

  For some moments more, the rapid click of keystrokes was the only sound in the room, their rhythm broken at last by a sigh.

  "Good-day, Daav." Clonak's voice, usually ebullient to the point of lunatic, was cool, his stance behind the computer was nothing more nor less than a warn-away. If he had been a cat, Daav thought, his tail would have been bristling. "I'm quite busy at the moment. You understand."

  He understood well enough. Twisted as their bond was, yet Aelliana and he acknowledged themselves partners, from the heart. That he dared long for the fullness of the link, when Clonak was denied even a taste . . .

  Daav raised his hands, showing empty palms and fingers spread wide—the sign for surrender.

  "Clonak, I am her natural lifemate."

  The keystrokes stopped. The figure in front of the screen raised his head, his round face showing lines that had not been there, four days ago.

  "Then it is neither your fault nor your blame, is it?" Clonak asked harshly.

  Daav winced, and lowered his hands. Clonak bent his head again, but did not return to his inputting.

  "Jon . . ." Daav cleared his throat. "Jon tells me you have an assignment. Where to, Scout?"

  "Security detail for a trade mission to Deluthia."

  Daav blinked. "Are the guild masters after that again? Don't they recall what happened last time?" Granting that it had been more than two dozen Standards in the past, but the last trade mission to Deluthia had resulted in the loss of two master traders and several support team members before the remainder had managed to win back to their ship and depart.

  "Oh, they say the theocracy has mellowed," Clonak said, sounding for the moment almost like his usual, manic self. "They came to the masters with sweet words on their tongues, and interesting goods in their hands. The masters considered it worth a second risk, and asked for volunteers."

  Volunteers.

  Daav closed his eyes.

  "It would be better," he said, around the ache in his heart, "if you exited this adventure intact. She would miss you, terribly—and I . . ."

  "I'll come back, Captain," Clonak said softly. "I only need . . . something to occupy me for the next while."

  "I do understand." He took a breath. "Be safe, darling. Come to us, when duty releases you." He turned. It was an ill parting from a lifelong friend, but he did not—he very much did not—wish to abrade Clonak's emotions further. He hoped, with all his heart, that their friendship might survive this—

  "Daav!"

  He turned back, as Clonak came 'round the desk.

  "I—I haven't wished you happy, old friend." He opened his arms, and Daav stepped into the embrace, cheek to cheek.

  "Tell her that I wish her so very much joy," Clonak whispered. "Tell her that, Daav."

  A strike to the heart, that was. Daav closed his eyes, arms tightening around the other man.

  "I'll tell her," he promised.

  * * *

  Trilla spun, sweeping her leg out in an attempt to catch and trip. Aelliana leapt, landing in a counterspin, her hand rising to block a blow at her dominant left side. What a pleasure it was to dance, to feel her muscles moving in concert, to know herself perfectly balanced and aware—

  She caught the motion from the side of her right eye, a fist, striking without subtlety directly for the heart of her defense.

  In former times, when she had danced menfri'at with Trilla, her immediate response to such an attack was to avoid it at all costs, even diving to the floor and curling into a ball, her arms folded over her head.

  Today, without even a thought for the pain, she half-turned, accepting the glancing strike across her shoulder as she lunged back along that admirably straight line, her hand connecting solidly with her partner's chest. The force of the blow sent them spinning apart. Aelliana came 'round as fast as she was able, anticipating a blow from the rear, or perhaps a snatch at free-flowing hair. Ran Eld had caught her that way—

  Trilla was standing flat-footed, her hand up in the sign for pause.

  "Bravo!"
she called. "You've been listening, after all!"

  "I had always listened." Aelliana shook her hair out of her face. "It was only that today, I could—access what I'd learned."

  "Well done." Daav's deep voice came from behind.

  Aelliana turned, and smiled to see him lounging against a tool cart, his arms crossed over his chest, pride plain on his face.

  "I think the pilot may be ready for the next level, Master Trilla. What say you?"

  "I agree, Master Daav. I agree!" She gave Aelliana a grin of sheer deviltry.

  "Come again tomorrow, Pilot, and we'll dance indeed!"

  "Ought I to be terrified?" Aelliana asked, though the prospect exhilarated rather than frightened.

  Trilla laughed. "It depends on how apt a student you are." She fished a rag from her back pocket, glancing to them each in turn.

  "Your pardons," she said, and dabbed at the sweat on her forehead.

  "Pilot?" Daav said. "Did you want to do that inspection, now?"

  "You had wanted to do the inspection, as I recall it," Aelliana answered. "But I will gladly stand by and watch."

  "Fair enough," he said, and came out of his lean with boneless grace, melting immediately into a bow to the pilot's honor.

  "After you."

  The walk to Ride the Luck's coldpad had been quiet, with Daav abstracted. Twice, Aelliana began to ask after Clonak, and twice thought better of it.

  When we reach the ship, she thought. Then, surely, he will tell me.

  She climbed the ramp first, and slotted the key, looking up at him over her shoulder as the hatch slid open.

  "We will need to have a set made for you," she said. "Do I apply to the Guild?"

  "Jon can make another set of keys for you just as easily as the Guild—and charge you half the price."

  "I will commission Jon, then," she said, turning 'round by the pilot's station. "My copilot should have access to our ship."

  He closed his eyes briefly. "Aelliana . . ."

  "No, we have decided it, van'chela. You shall sit copilot on this, our ship. It only remains to know our cargo and our destination."

  "Simple matters," he said, giving her a smile that was, perhaps, not utterly false. He turned toward the corridor to the rear of the chamber.

  "Well, then," he said, suddenly brisk, "let us survey what we—"

  "Daav."

  He paused, but did not look at her. Aelliana bit her lip, stomach suddenly tight. It was bad news, then. One did not like to think—no. One did not know what to think. And apparently Daav was not going to tell her what had transpired, absent a direct question.

  "Clonak," she said, carefully. "What did he say?"

  Daav sighed, and did turn to look at her, his face carefully bland.

  "He said that he wished you every joy, Aelliana."

  That was true, she felt that it was so. However, it was too thin a truth to hide the pain at the back of Daav's eyes.

  "There's something else," she said, watching him; listening with all of her senses.

  "Indeed. He leaves very soon on a mission—a security mission—and is much involved in preparation."

  A chill washed over her, damply; she spoke before she had consciously named the emotion.

  "That distresses you. Why?"

  Daav sighed and walked toward her. "You are becoming far too adept at this," he commented, "else all my skills are failing at once."

  She took a breath, tasting his dismay.

  "I think—I think that I am still reaping the Healers' benefit," she said slowly, "and . . . perhaps . . . the Tree's."

  One well-marked brow lifted as he shook his head. "I had warned you that the Tree was meddlesome."

  "So you had," she replied with what calmness she could manage. "But you were going to tell me why you are so . . . very worried."

  "Clonak volunteers as security to a trade mission bound for Deluthia, which, in the recent past, has demonstrated a certain . . . hostility to Liaden trade missions. The security team that supported the last attempt at Deluthia—fared badly."

  But this hardly seemed like Clonak, Aelliana thought. For one who enjoyed his comfort so much to put himself into such peril?

  "Why?" she asked. "Why is he accepting—volunteering for—so dangerous a mission? Surely, there are other—" It struck her then, full knowledge, as if the thought had passed from Daav's mind into hers.

  "It's me." Her hand moved, her fingers gripped his arm, and she read the truth out of him.

  "Clonak . . . loves . . . me? How is that possible?" Her knees were weak—not fear, she thought, dully, but shock—and a tithe of shame.

  "I must—" She groped behind her for the pilot's chair, spun it and sat, staring at the deck plates, her thoughts in turmoil.

  After a moment, she looked up to meet Daav's eyes.

  "I don't know what I must do," she said, her voice small in her own ears.

  He dropped to one knee next to her chair, and looked seriously into her face.

  "Nor do I, except to allow him to pursue his own destiny." A smile glimmered, far back in his eyes. "I did wring a promise from him, that he would endeavor not to get himself killed."

  "That was well done," Aelliana conceded, with a ripple of her own humor.

  "Thank you." He sighed. "Truly, Aelliana, Clonak is fully capable. I think we must trust him to come back to us, and in better condition than he now stands."

  "Is he—badly hurt?" she asked.

  "He has taken a wound," Daav acknowledged. "Serious, but I think not fatal."

  "That I could—I would never harm him of my own will!" Aelliana burst out. She felt a sudden need to throw things, excepting that nothing lay to hand. "I—I honor him, and I value him. Perhaps it is love, of a kind, but . . ."

  "It is possible," Daav said softly, "to love more than one. Greater or lesser is a clumsy ruler. So it is that I love Clonak, and Olwen, Frad and Jon, Er Thom, Anne, and Shan."

  There was no need to ask it; she knew the answer. Yet it seemed her tongue had a will of its own.

  "And—me?"

  "You . . ." He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. "If I measured each of my loves against what I feel for you, it would seem that I had never loved anyone at all."

  A thrill of emotion accompanied that, all edges and pinpricks. Aelliana took a breath.

  "Van'chela, this thing that we are—is it—well?"

  He smiled, slow and warm. "I think it is very well, indeed," he murmured, and leaned over to kiss her.

  The touch of his lips ignited her; she leaned in hungrily, with one hand pulling him close, and closer still.

  Daav made a noise that might have been a purr or a growl, his lips on her throat now. He pressed forward; the chair began to recline, yielding beneath their combined weight.

  Open, you stupid, mewling brat! Her husband's voice shouted from memory; accompanied by the sensation of being pinned by a weight greater than hers, her legs thrust wide—

  Quick as a breath, the memory was gone, and it was Daav holding her, pressing her down, and she wanted, wanted—

  She raised a hand and put it flat against his chest.

  "Wait . . ." she whispered.

  He froze where he was; she felt the care he took, and what it cost him to straighten away from her and sit back on his heels.

  "Aelliana, forgive me—"

  She put her fingers over his mouth.

  "There is nothing to forgive," she told him, "only . . . an accommodation. I—we—can learn this, van'chela." She came to her feet, reaching down to take his hand. "Come."

  Hand-linked, they left the piloting chamber, and hand-linked they went down the short hall to crew's quarters. She put her free hand against the door on the right side of the corridor, and smiled when it slid soundlessly open.

  The room beyond was decadent, reflecting some—though not all—of the former owner's . . . predilections. The ceiling mirrors had been sold, but the rest of the room was absurdly furnished for a working Class A Jump.


  The floor was covered in thick, creamy carpet; the bed luxuriously outfitted with silks, furs, and an entire school of brightly colored pillows. It was, she thought, turning to face Daav, perfect. It belonged to no one, save her; and it was her choice that had brought him here. That was important.

  Very important.

  "Take off your jacket," she commanded.

  One eyebrow rose, but he complied, dropping the garment to the rug.

  "Take off your jacket," he countered, softly.

  Ah, this was a game that Daav knew, was it? She smiled again, delight stitching through the bright threads of need, desire, and determination.

  Her jacket slid down her arms. She dropped it next to his on the rug.

  "Your shirt," she said. "Remove it."

  He smiled and fingered the lacing loose, taking an inordinately long time about it, his eyes on hers the entire while, at last withdrawing the cord from its guides entirely and dropping it to the floor. His eyes still on hers, he slowly pulled the shirt over his head, and let it fall.

  She stepped forward then, unable to stop, and ran her hands over his chest, delighting in the texture of his skin, stretching high to place her hands on his shoulders, her body pressed into his, and her face turned up.

  "Kiss me."

  He did that, and willingly. Hunger seared her; she angled her mouth against his hard and demanding, and he responded—but with restraint; his embrace not as fierce as it might have been—she read it in him, that he did not wish to frighten her, and stepped back, shivering with need.

  Her shirt had someway joined the muddle of clothes on the rug; she didn't remember how, and it did not concern her.

  "Boots," Daav murmured, before she could draw breath. "Else this will quickly become a comedy."

  She laughed, breathless, and sat on the edge of the bed to attend hers, then looked up at him, feeling suddenly not . . . quite . . . bold.

  "Take off the rest," she said, her voice shaking. "And lie down on the bed."

  He was a paradox—a dozen paradoxes; velvet skin over hard, lean muscle. Her fingers found scars; her lips found places that had him nearly weeping with delight.