by Sharon Lee
"No, you have comported yourself with honor! It only remains for me to do my part."
Smiling, she drifted back down-counter, picked up her glass and looked about her. There were stools pushed under a high table set at an angle to the counter. She pulled one out and perched on it, watching as Daav deftly took four slices of brown bread from the loaf, sprinkled them with oil and set them on the flatiron he had placed on the stove. He unwrapped the block of cheese, and cut four thin slices from it, rewrapped it and pulled a second, smaller block to him. His motions were quick, but relaxed, without a wasted move, nor a stutter.
"Will you like sweet sauce?" he murmured, without looking up from shaving paper-thin slices from the second cheese. "Hot sauce? Jam?"
"Make them as you would for yourself," she told him. She sipped her wine—and gasped.
Daav looked at her over his shoulder.
"Is the wine not to your liking?"
"I—It is very much to my liking," she confessed, and raised her chin, determined that he not see her chagrined twice over the same bottle. "It will, I think, go very well with the cheese."
"I agree," he said, his eyes dancing. "I see that you give me close supervision."
"As to that, I haven't the first idea of how to make toasted cheese sandwiches! I find the process fascinating."
He grinned. "Watch well, then. The next time we require comfort, you will cook."
She shook her hair back, watching him ply the knife, so certain and so deft.
"I might very well make an error, and lose comfort for both."
"Little chance of that." He put cheese on two slices of the oiled bread, and pulled a small jar down from a shelf cluttered with such. Each slice was spread with a brownish sauce and capped with a second slice of bread. Daav lit the burner and reached for the turner hanging behind the stove.
"Every toasted cheese sandwich is unique unto itself," he said, picking up his glass. "Like art, there are no mistakes."
Aelliana sipped her wine, relishing the sweet flowery notes, and the bite of licorice beneath. Daav made a pleasant sight, his shoulders easy and his hips cocked, as he overlooked his project. He raised his glass for another sip, the muscles moving beneath his shirt, and she was suddenly, vividly warm, recalling the feel of his skin beneath her palms, his long legs, entwined with hers . . .
Flushed, she raised her glass and drank, perhaps more deeply than the wine deserved. At the stove, Daav used the turner, and the sandwiches sizzled against the grill.
Turning slightly, he put his glass down and reached into the cabinet to the left of the stove, pulling down two plates.
"In a moment," he said, over his shoulder, "we feast."
That was, she thought, a cue. She slid from the stool and retrieved his glass, carrying it with hers to the table before she fetched the bottle and refreshed both. The stool, she brought back to its proper place, and turned just as Daav arrived with the plates, each adorned with a toasted sandwich, cut neatly into halves.
"Now, Pilot," he said, folding his long self onto a stool, "I daresay you've never sampled anything like this!"
She laughed, watching under her lashes as he picked up a half sandwich and juggled it along his fingertips. That was not play, she found a heartbeat later, as she picked up one of her own halves; the bread was hot, slightly oily, and smelled delicious.
Carefully, she nibbled a corner, sighed and looked up to find him watching her.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's marvelous," she told him truthfully. "What is the sauce?"
"Apple butter. You don't find it too sweet?"
"Not at all," she assured him, and smiled. "Thank you, Daav."
"No need to thank me for taking proper care of my pilot," he answered, and turned his full attention to his meal, Aelliana following suit.
"Where," she asked, after the plates were empty and the glasses refreshed again, "did you go?"
"Ah. Daav visited his brother while the delm took counsel of his thodelm."
Aelliana felt her stomach tighten. "And the outcome?" she asked, striving for a calm voice.
"Thodelm yos'Galan is of the opinion that it is Korval's duty to show a bold face to the world. It is unbecoming of us to cower in the shadows, clinging to safety. He stops short of advising us to brawl in taverns and set up a business in the Low Port, but only just."
She considered that, sipping her wine gratefully. "Mr. dea'Gauss had said that there were protocols in place in his office, to accommodate those tasks that the delm now oversees," she said, looking up into Daav's sharp, attentive face. "He says that there is a promising younger on his staff whom he would very much like to accept those responsibilities—with oversight, of course."
"Of course," he murmured.
Aelliana sipped again, thinking of the papers that she had left, unexecuted, in Mr. dea'Gauss' hands. There was, she decided, no need to mention them to Daav. After all, he had seen no need to tell her that he intended to settle half his fortune on her.
"We are agreed, then? You will sit my copilot, and we shall enlist The Luck as a courier?"
He smiled, and she felt her blood warm.
"We are agreed," he murmured. "How can we stand against the advice of both yos'Galan and dea'Gauss?"
She laughed, and reached out to touch his hand, feeling his amusement bolster her own.
"Now!" he said. "Would you like another toasted cheese sandwich?"
She considered him, and the thought—the desire—that had formed, seemingly of its own.
"I thank you," she said, "but no. I believe that I would rather field—an impertinence."
Interest rippled from him, and perhaps a glow of pride.
"And that would be?"
She took a deep breath, his hand beneath hers on the table. "Might I see—your apartment?"
There was a flutter of—Daav slid his hand away.
Panicked, she looked up into his smile.
"There is not very much to see, but if that is your whim—certainly. Let me clear the table while you finish your wine."
His apartment was on the same side of the hall as hers; it warmed her absurdly to think that they shared a like view of the inner garden. He opened the door and stepped back to allow her first entry, as if she outranked him—or the place was hers by right.
She looked up into his face, which was perfectly and politely bland. She raised her hand—and let it fall before she touched him.
"Daav? If you had rather not . . ."
"You had wanted to see it," he murmured. "Please, satisfy yourself."
Thus commanded, and regretting her impertinence fully, she stepped into the room.
She had meant—when she saw how much it distressed him, she had meant only to look, and then to go away and leave him his peace. But the room drew her in, step by wondering step, and she with just enough sense to keep her hands clasped behind her. The shelves begged study—there were books, certainly, but also interesting stones, figurines, shells, and other things that she would need to ask him what they were, and what he thought of them.
A comfortably-shabby double chair covered in dusty blue sat at an angle to the fireplace, a book open, facedown on the seat. By the window, where in her apartment the computer desk held pride of place, stood a worktable of another kind, bladed tools were neatly set to hand; wood in different shapes, colors and textures were sorted to the sides. The comm unit sat on a table of its own; message light dark.
She moved on, her steps Scout-silent on overlapping rugs, pausing as she came to a wall covered so closely with pictures that the wood could not be seen. A star map caught her eye, and a portrait of the Tree, drawn in a childish hand. A flatpic of a fair-haired woman with piercing blue eyes, and another, of a brown-striped cat . . .
Aelliana took a breath, and spun slowly, seeking to memorize this place that was so clearly and definitively Daav's place.
Her spin brought her 'round to face him, standing as still as a wild thing to one side of the open door, watch
ing her from hooded black eyes. She bowed, as one who has been granted a great boon.
"Thank you," she whispered, and took a breath. She wanted to stay here in this room that seemed to embrace her and hold her close, but that would indeed be an impertinence. Daav, she understood suddenly, did not have people here. He had an entire house in which to entertain whom he would—friends, even lovers, need never come here.
"I will bid you good night, van'chela," she said gently. "Dream sweetly."
She moved toward the doorway.
"Aelliana." So soft, his voice. Almost, she thought she had imagined it.
She turned. He held out his hand, fingers slightly curled; she put her palm against his.
"Will you stay?" he asked, and she read his desire, that she would, and his fear—that she would refuse him.
She stepped forward, standing on her toes to lay her arms around his neck.
"Yes," she said, setting her cheek against his. "I want to."
Chapter Eighteen
In an ally, considerations of house, clan, planet, race are insignificant beside two prime questions, which are:
1. Can he shoot?
2. Will he aim at your enemy?
—
From Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book
Kiladi had achieved a third degree.
Now that, Daav thought, was unexpected in the extreme. He had been certain that the good scholar's plea for a remote defense, relying solely on the body of his work, would be roundly rejected by the Guardians of Knowledge at Dobrin University. However, it would appear that the existence of Scholar Kiladi's previous degrees had borne some weight with the accrediting committee. He opened the folder, barely glancing at the chip beneath its protective covering before running his eye down the short lines detailing the committee's decision.
Jen Sar Kiladi comes to Dobrin University already an accredited expert in comparative linguistics and diaspora dynamics. His numerous monographs and articles illuminate him as a scholar of rigorous and impeccable methodology. Therefore, though his request to waive a personal defense is unusual, it is the decision of this duly convened meeting of the Dobrin Guardians of Knowledge to honor the scholar's plea.
The Guardians and three unaffiliated Scholar Experts have closely examined the dossier submitted by Scholar Kiladi, taking particular care to scrutinize his sources and test his conclusions against the key literature in the field.
Having performed this examination, it is the judgment of the Guardians of Knowledge of Dobrin University that Jen Sar Kiladi is without a doubt fitted to be elevated to the rank of Scholar Expert of Cultural Genetics.
It was signed by all of the members of the Guardians of Knowledge and the three unaffiliated Scholar Experts, which display was significantly longer than the Statement of Certification.
Daav closed the folder, slipped it into an inside jacket pocket and pressed the seal.
A note would have to be written, of course. Kiladi was meticulous in such things. Indeed, he bordered on a little too meticulous, did Kiladi; it had seriously pained him to enter the plea for a remote defense. He ought to have gone to Bontemp and stood his defense; it was disrespectful of his colleagues in scholarship to have done otherwise, and yet—travel had become difficult for the good scholar of late, and common sense had at last carried the day.
Daav glanced at his watch, and turned his steps up-port, away from the little street of temp offices, noodle shops, and automated mail drops. He'd best be quick if he wished to be anywhere near on time to meet Aelliana at Ongit's for lunch.
He smiled slightly as he walked. Aelliana—what a marvel she was, to be sure! She grew—were he more loverlike, he would of course say that she blossomed, but hers was no coy unfolding, petal by shy silken petal. No, Aelliana hurtled skyward, branches spreading greedily, soaking up sensation, experience, life at a rate that was nothing short of astonishing. He would take oath that she changed even as she slept; he, proximate to that storm of constant alteration—he had changed, as well.
It was not to be expected that his growth would be so exuberant as hers; he was her elder—in years, and in experience. Yet with all of that, he felt lighter of late, as if his experience was buoying him rather than bearing him groundward.
Had he been asked, he most certainly would have said that he would never welcome another person into his rooms, privy to all his bad habits and distempers. Aelliana—he smiled and dashed across the street, dodging busy traffic. That they had not settled in her rooms—that, he thought, was understandable, for she had so little of her own to want about her. His suggestion that they choose another suite to make into theirs had dismayed her, and he had found himself . . . content to have her establish herself within his space.
Even, he thought, turning the corner into a street appreciably more prosperous than the one from which Kiladi collected his mail, he had accommodated himself—almost accommodated himself—to her ability to snatch his feelings and his thoughts straight out from the core of him. For himself, the more he observed her, the more he knew her mind and her heart—which was Scoutlike, and comforting.
For those other things that he desired . . . Aelliana remained adamant in her refusal to accept what she referred to as a "social lifemating"; nor would she sign the financial papers dea'Gauss had drawn up, and so make some comfort for herself. Those things grieved him, though not as much as her presence fulfilled him. Nothing, he felt, could break their bond, unequal as it was.
He negotiated a bit of crowded sidewalk, raising a hand to Gus Tav bel'Urik as he passed. The merchant acknowledged him distractedly, most of his attention on a lady of visible means, which was well, in Daav's opinion. As nearly allied as their clans were, yet he had no wish to exchange extended pleasantries with Merchant bel'Urik today.
Two steps more and he turned right, into Ongit's cluttered foyer, and smiled over a small sea of heads at young Pendra Ongit, who was on duty at the reception tower.
She gave him a grin and jerked her head to the left.
"She's waiting for you, Pilot," she called.
"My thanks," he answered and passed Scoutlike through the crowd.
* * *
Daav had arrived.
In the back booth, Aelliana straightened and craned to see him over the rest of the diners in Ongit's common room. Useless, of course. How she envied Daav's height! Especially when he was not on hand to act as her lookout.
But there—a tall shadow was moving down-room, dark hair sweeping level shoulders, and the glint of silver at one ear. Aelliana smiled, feeling herself warm agreeably. It was thus, now: however contented or happy she had been by herself, that feeling was intensified sixfold by Daav's arrival. Today, she felt as if she might melt entirely, for she had been happy indeed, and all but ready to burst with her news.
Long legs delivered him to her quickly. He stood a moment, looking down at her, dark eyes bright, the merest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. For herself, she felt she must be grinning like a babe, too simple yet to control her face—and cared just as little.
"You are late," she said, striving for severity.
"And yet," he said, with mock seriousness, "you waited for me. How am I to take that?"
"I might easily have left," she answered as he slid into the booth next to her, rendering any such escape impossible.
"So you might have done," he allowed, and nodded at the wine bottle that had been left to breathe in the center of the table, two glasses standing sentinel.
"Is that your choice?" he asked.
"It was sent over by the red-haired pilot," she said, nodding to the right.
Daav turned his head, considering for a long moment the boisterous round table where the pilot sat with eight of his comrades. Aelliana blamed him not at all. The red-haired pilot made a compelling figure. Not beautiful, but pleasing, his demeanor somewhat reminiscent of Daav himself. Aelliana thought the similarity might stem from a familiarity with command, and wondered if the red-haired man was also a delm.
<
br /> "The pilot has excellent taste, as I happen to know," Daav said, returning his attention to her. "We could scarcely be so churlish as to disdain his gift. Will you pour?"
"Certainly. Daav, I have—"
"Have you ordered?" he interrupted. "For I fear you are correct, and I am most shamefully tardy. If we're to keep our appointment at Tey Dor's, we may not linger long over our meal."
"I asked for salads and soup and bread to come when you did," Aelliana told him. "Felae assured me that there would be no difficulty."
Daav's left eyebrow quirked. "Felae, is it? Shall I be dismayed?"
She knew that he was teasing her. The proper thing to do was to answer in kind; she had learned that. She had even learned a certain pleasure in matching his wit. Today, however, she was too full of her news—their news—and simply shook her head at him, much as Anne did to Shan, when she wished him to behave.
"Cast into my place!" Daav mourned. "But at least I shall not starve."
"Pilots." Felae deftly swung the tray 'round, stopping it with a touch of his fingers. He sorted the plates and the utensils quickly before looking to Aelliana.
"Will there be anything else, Pilot?" he asked respectfully.
"Thank you, this looks to be everything," she said, and smiled at him. "You were very quick to notice that we were ready!"
The boy ducked his head.
"That was my sister's doing, Pilot. She pinged me from the reception station when your partner cleared the foyer."
"Excellent teamwork," Daav murmured approvingly.
Felae's pale cheeks darkened slightly, with pleasure or with shyness, Aelliana was not able to discern. He bowed, straightening to catch the tray as it began to wander aside.
"Enjoy your meal, Pilots," he said and off he went, veering to the left in response to a high-held hand.
"Bread, Pilot?" Daav murmured, reaching into the basket.
Aelliana sighed in anticipation.
