The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  Of course they did.

  And she, blind fool, to think Delm's Word would shield her forever; to believe that she had only to appease Ran Eld sufficiently, to show that she did not—had never—wanted it. To think that, eventually, matters would mend.

  Ran Eld would be delm someday; gods willing, not soon.

  But when he finally came into his rightful estate there was one task he would immediately set himself to accomplish: The annihilation of Aelliana Caylon, his old and bitter enemy.

  He would kill her, she thought, shuddering. He would breed her until her body broke, choosing such husbands as would discover the first to be a paragon of gentle virtue. He would invite her to beg his mercy and glory in refusing it; he would slap her face in company and fling her into walls for the pleasure of hearing her cry.

  Gods, why had she never seen that every time the current delm stayed Ran Eld's hand, two blows were banked for later delivery?

  I must leave.

  The thought was so shocking, so perfect, that she raised her head, shaking tangled hair away from her face, the better to stare into the dim air. Terrans lived clanless, did they not? And by all accounts prospered—or the clever ones did. One needed only be canny in one's investments, and—

  Investments.

  She flung forward, scrabbling among the frayed rug-loops. Her frantic fingers found them quickly; she cradled their coolness in her hot palm, breathing fast and hard.

  Four cantra.

  Not a fortune, certainly, though she approached seven, counting her hoarded bonuses. It might well be enough to buy her free of a future where Ran Eld was delm.

  Clutching her meager treasure, she lurched to her feet. She would leave the clan, leave Liad, start anew among the free-living Terrans. She would go now. Tonight.

  She stowed the four cantra in her right sleeve-pocket, sealing the opening with care.

  Then she went, silent and breath-caught, down the stairs. She crossed the foyer like a waft of breeze and let herself out the front door and into the mist-laced night.

  Chapter Four

  As each individual strives to serve the clan, so shall the clan provide what is necessary for the best welfare of each. Within the clan shall be found, truth, kinship, affection and care. Outside of the clan shall be found danger and despite.

  Those whom the clan, in sorrow, rejects, shall be Accepted of no other clan. They shall neither seek to return to their former kin nor shall they demand quarter-share, food or succor.

  To be outside of the clan is to be dead to the clan.

  —Excerpted from the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

  DAAV CAME INTO the Small Parlor, eyebrows up.

  "Good evening, brother. Am I late?"

  "Not at all," Er Thom yos'Galan replied, turning from the window with a smile. "I came before time, so that we might talk, if you would."

  "Why would I not? Wine?"

  "Thank you."

  Er Thom preferred the red. Daav splashed a portion into a crystal cup and handed it aside, surveying his cha'leket's evening clothes with a smile.

  "You look extremely, darling. Bindan shall have no hesitation in opening the door this evening."

  "As they would certainly hesitate to admit Korval Himself," Er Thom said, in echo of his lifemate.

  Daav grinned and poured himself a cup of pale blue misravot. "No, you are the beauty, after all. What could Bindan find for pleasure in such a fox-faced fellow as myself?" He sipped. "Discounting, of course, an alliance such as no one of sense will turn aside."

  "So bitter, brother?" Er Thom's soft voice carried a note of sorrow.

  Daav moved his shoulders. "Bitter? Say jaded, rather, and then pardon—as you always do!—my damnable moods." He raised his cup. "What had you wished to speak of?"

  "We are on my subject," his brother said gently. "It had been in my mind that you did not—like—the match."

  "Like the match," Daav repeated, staring in surprise. For Anne to question the validity of a contract-marriage was expectable. To hear such a query from Er Thom, who was Liaden to the core of him—that must give one pause.

  "Have you information," he asked carefully, "which might—alter—the delm's decision in this?"

  "I have nothing to bring before the delm. Indeed, lady and clan appear perfectly unexceptional, in terms of alliance and of genes. My concern is all for my cha'leket, who I—feel—may not be entirely reconciled to marriage."

  "I am reconciled to necessity," Daav said, which did not answer his brother's concern, and held as its only virtue the fact that it was true.

  Worry showed plain in Er Thom's eyes.

  "Daav, if you do not like it, stand aside."

  Plain speaking, indeed! Daav allowed astonishment to show.

  "Darling, what would you have me do? The law is clear. Necessity is clearer. I must provide the clan with the heir of my body. Indeed, full nurseries at Jelaza Kazone and Trealla Fantrol must be the delm's goal, for we are grown thin—dangerously so."

  He saw that point strike home, for it was true that the Line Direct had suffered severe losses in recent years. And yet—

  "If you cannot like the lady," Er Thom insisted, with all the tenacity a master trader might bring to bear, "stand aside. Bid Mr. dea'Gauss find another—"

  "As to that," Daav interrupted, with some asperity, "I like her as well as any other lady who has been thrown at my head these past six years."

  "You have grown bitter. I had feared it." He turned aside; put his glass away from him. "I shall not accompany you this evening, I think."

  Shock sent a tingle of ice down Daav's spine. In the aftermath of disbelief, he heard his own voice, dangerously mild.

  "You refuse to assist your delm in a matter of such import to the clan?"

  Er Thom's shoulders stiffened, his face yet turned aside.

  "Will the delm order me to accompany him?" he inquired softly.

  Yes, very likely! Daav thought, with a wry twist of humor. Order Er Thom to any thing like and Daav would gain as his evening's companion an exquisitely mannered mannequin in place of a willing, intelligent ally. It was no more Balance than he would himself exact, were their places changed.

  Er Thom being quite as much Korval as Daav, persuasion alone was left open. He extended a hand and lay it gently upon his brother's arm.

  "Come, why shall we disagree over what cannot be escaped? If not this lady, it must be some other. I am of a mind to have the matter done with, and the best course toward finish lies through begun."

  Er Thom turned his head, raised troubled violet eyes. "Yet it is not—meet, when you do not care for her, when any is the same as one—"

  "No," Daav interrupted gently. "No, darling, you have lost sight of custom. The Code tells us that a contract-spouse is chosen for lineage and such benefits of alliance and funding as must be found desirable by one's delm. It notes that resolution may be brought about more speedily, if both spouses are of generally like mind and neither is entirely repulsed by the other. You know your Code, own that I am correct."

  "You are correct," Er Thom acknowledged, with an inclination of the head. "However, I submit that the Code is not—"

  "I submit," Daav interrupted again, even more gently, "that you have been taught by a Terran wife."

  A flash of violet eyes. "And that is an ill, I understand?"

  "Not at all. Scouts learn that all custom is equally compelling, upon its own world. I point out that Korval is based—however regretfully—upon Liad."

  Er Thom's eyes widened slightly. "So we are," he murmured after a moment. He grinned suddenly. "We might relocate."

  "To New Dublin, I suppose," Daav said, naming Anne's homeworld with a smile. "The Contract is still in force."

  "Alas." Er Thom recovered his wine glass and sipped, eyes roving the room.

  The point was his, Daav considered with relief, and had recourse to his own glass.

  "I do wish," Er Thom murmured, "that you might find one to care for—as Anne and I . .
."

  Daav raised a brow. "I shall advertise in The Gazette," he said, meaning to offer an absurdity: "'Daav yos'Phelium seeks one who might love him for himself alone. Those qualified apply to Jelaza Kazone, Solcintra, Liad.'"

  Er Thom frowned. "You do not believe such a one exists."

  "I have met a great many people in the six years I have worn the Ring," Daav said with matching gravity. "If such a one exists, she has been—reticent."

  Er Thom glanced away then, but not before Daav had seen the quick shine of tears in his eyes.

  They finished their wine in a silence not so easy as usual.

  "It is time, brother," Daav said at last. "Do you come with me?"

  "Yes, certainly," Er Thom replied. "I had left my cloak in the hall."

  "Mine is with it," Daav said, and arm-in-arm, they quit the room.

  IT WAS LATE.

  Aelliana had no very clear notion of precisely how late; her thoughts, fears, and discoveries muddled time past counting.

  Less hasty consideration showed that her initial plan—to leave Clan Mizel and Liad immediately—required modification. She walked the misty streets for unheeded hours, working and reworking the steps, weighing necessity against certitude, honor against fear.

  Fact: In due time, and barring unfortunate accidents, nadelms did, indeed, become delms.

  Fact: Learned Scholar of Subrational Mathematics Aelliana Caylon, lately resolved to flee her homeworld for the comforts of a Terran settlement, spoke not one word of Standard Terran, nor any of the numerous Terran dialects. She did, of course, speak Trade, and understand somewhat of the Scout's finger-talk, but she could not, upon sober reflection, suppose this knowledge to balance her ignorance.

  She might take sleep-learning to remedy her deficiency of language. But even sleep-learning takes time; and the skills thus gained must be exercised in waking mind, or else be lost like any other dream.

  There were, of course, luxury liners which made such things as Learning Modules available to their passengers, but to book such passage was—

  Fact: Beyond her meager means.

  A visit to the ticketing office in mid-city had revealed that seven cantra would indeed buy passage to a Terran world, via tramp trader. If she wished to crew as part of her fare—and if the captain of the vessel agreed—she might reduce her cost to four cantra.

  In either wise, she arrived at her destination—one Desolate—clanless, bankrupt; ignorant of language, custom and local conditions.

  A badly flawed equation, in any light. She leaned against a damp pillar and closed her eyes, sickened by the magnitude of the things she did not know.

  Ran Eld was right, she thought drearily: She was a fool. How could she have considered leaving Liad? She was no Scout, trained in the ways of countless odd customs, able to learn foreign tongues simply by hearing them said . . .

  "Scholar Caylon?" The voice was familiar, light and young, the mode, of all things, Comrade, though she took pains to be no one's friend.

  "Scholar Caylon?" the voice persisted, somewhat more urgently. She had the sense that there was a body very close to her own, though her interlocutor did not venture a touch. "It is Rema, Scholar. Do you require aid?"

  Rema, Scout Corporal ven'Deelin. She of the eidetic memory. Aelliana pried open her eyes.

  "I beg your pardon," she whispered, answering the warmth of Comrade mode with the coolth of Nonkin. Her glance skated past the Scout's face.

  "Indeed, it is nothing. I had only stopped to rest for a—" Her gaze wandered beyond the Scout's shoulder and for the first time in many hours Aelliana's brain attended to the information her eyes reported.

  "What place is this?" she demanded, staring at a wholly unfamiliar plaza, at a double rainbow of lights that blazed and flashed along a sidewalk like a ribbon of gold. Folk were about in distressing number, most in cloaks and evening dress, small constellations of jewels glittering about their elegant persons. Others were dressed more plainly, with here and there a glimpse of Scout leather, such as the girl before her wore.

  "Chonselta Port," Rema said patiently, yet insisting upon Comrade. "It is the new gaming hall—Quenpalt's Casino. We've all come down to see it—and half Solcintra, as well, by the look of the crowd!"

  Chonselta Port. Gods, she had walked the long angle through the city, entirely through the warehouse district, passed all unknowing between the gates and then walked half her original distance again. It must be . . . must be . . .

  "The time," she said, suddenly urgent. "What is the time?"

  "Local midnight, or close enough," Rema replied. She swayed half-a-step closer. "Forgive me, Scholar. It is plain that you are not well. Allow me to call your kin."

  "No!" Her hand snapped up, imperative. Rema's eyes followed the motion, snagged—and slid away.

  Startled, Aelliana glanced down. The bracelet of bruises circling her wrist was green and yellow, distressingly obvious in the extravagant light.

  "Perhaps," the Scout suggested softly, "there is a place where you would prefer to spend the night. Perhaps there is a—friend—in whose care you might rest easy. I am your willing escort, Scholar, only tell me your destination."

  She felt tears prick the back of her eyes, who had long ago learned not to weep.

  "You are kind," she murmured, and meant it, though she dared not allow herself the mode of comrades. "There is no need for you to trouble yourself on my behalf. I have only walked further than I had supposed and the hour escaped my notice."

  "I see," Rema said gravely. She hesitated and seemed about to say more.

  "Well, for space sake," commented an irritated voice only too plainly belonging to Var Mon, "if your object was to stand out in the damned mist all night—" He blinked, coming up short just beyond Rema's shoulder.

  "Scholar Caylon! Good evening, ma'am. Have you come to beat the house?"

  "Beat the house?" she repeated stupidly, wondering how she might explain her late homecoming, when Ran Eld was already watching, eager for a chance to pain her.

  "Certainly! Have you not taught us that there is no such thing as a game of chance? For every mode of play there is a pattern which, once recognized, may be manipulated according to the rules of mathematics. You recall the lecture, Rema, I know you do!"

  "I do," his friend said shortly, and without sparing him a glance. "Scholar, please. You are plainly far from well. Allow one who holds you in highest respect to offer aid."

  "Not well?" Var Mon sent a brilliant glance into Aelliana's face, then tapped Rema's shoulder with an authoritative forefinger. "She's wet, is all. Anyone would be, standing around in this stupid mist. I'm getting wet myself, if it comes to that. Glass of brandy will set her right." He pointed down the length of golden sidewalk to a cascade of gem-lit stairs crowned by wide ebon doors.

  "Nearest source of brandy's right there—not to mention shelter from the weather. There's room at our table for the Scholar. After she's warmed herself she can give us some advice on winning against the random and we'll see her into a cab before we start back to Academy. Everything's binjali, hey?"

  Binjali—a not-Liaden word enjoying currency only among Scouts, so far as Aelliana knew—meant "excellent" or "high-grade. " She forced her fuddled brain to work. Something must be done to disarm Rema's all-too-apparent concern. Scouts were observant, many were empathic, as well, though of a different skill level than an interactive empath, or Healer. Perhaps a glass or two of wine, and a lecture on practical math in relation to games of chance . . .

  "That sounds a good plan," she said, looking past Rema's grave eyes to Var Mon's mischievous face. "I am damp and would welcome a chance to dry."

  "Good enough," the boy returned with a grin. Without more discussion, he spun on his heel and moved away down the crowded sidewalk, obviously expecting that they would follow.

  "Scholar?" murmured Rema, but Aelliana pretended not to hear and pushed away from the friendly wall, following Var Mon's leather-clad back through the glittering crowd.
/>   Chapter Five

  Remember who we are.

  We are not Solcintran.

  We are not derived from the Old Houses.

  We are Korval

  Keep the Contract, protect the Tree, gather ships, survive.

  But never, never, never let them make you forget who you are.

  —Val Con yos'Phelium,

  Second Delm of Korval,

  Entry in the Delm's Diary for Jeelum Twelfthday

  in the Fourth Relumma of the Year Named Qin

  THE LADY HAD EXPECTED a more costly jewel.

  Not that she was so ill-bred as to actually say it, but Scouts are skilled in reading the language of muscle and posture: To Daav, her disappointment could scarcely have been plainer had she cried it aloud.

  He was stung at first, for it was a pretty piece, and he had expended time and care in its choosing. However, his innate sense of the ridiculous soon laid salve upon injured feelings.

  Come, Daav, he chided himself, where is the profit in contracting Korval, if not in having extravagant jewelry to flaunt in the face of the world? Being so little fond of jewels yourself, this aspect of the case doubtless escaped you.

  He had a sip of tolerable red. No matter, he thought. The marriage-jewels shall be more fitly chosen, now her preference is known.

  Beside him, Samiv tel'Izak gently replaced the troth-gift in its carved wooden box and set it on the table. Daav felt another twinge of regret. He had carved the little box himself—not, it must be admitted, with the lady at all in his thoughts, but rather as a means of calming mind and heart on a day some years past. Still, the feel of hand-carving must be unmistakable against her fingertips, odd enough to earn at least a second glance.

  Samiv tel'Izak took up her glass and lifted grave eyes to his face.

  "I thank your lordship for the grace of your gift."

  It was said with complete propriety in the mode of Addressing-a Delm-Not-One's-Own. There were several other modes she might have chosen with equal propriety—and greater warmth: Addressing-a-Guest-of-the-House, Adult-to-Adult, or even Pilot-to-Pilot, though that approached the Low Tongue, and might be considered forward-coming.