The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  "Master class. The ship don't fly us, which is the case with the chel'Mara. We fly the ship. But blood and bone gets tired, math teacher—even Scouts have to sleep. Say you were hurt and needed time in the 'doc—do you leave the ship to a glitched comp, or do you sit that board and hope you don't pass out?"

  She licked her lips. "Surely, in Solcintra. In local space—"

  "The luck is everywhere—for good or for ill—and it's best not to spit in its face." Jon leaned forward on his stool, one arm across a powerful thigh.

  "We're not talking regs, child. We all agree the regs are expendable—given sufficient cause. What we're talking is common sense. Survival. You understand survival."

  "Yes," she whispered and swallowed hard in a tight throat. "Master dea'Cort, I cannot afford a replacement navcomp. I cannot afford to be grounded. Ride the Luck is a working ship and I intend that we—that we earn our way."

  "That being the case," Daav said from behind her, "commission Binjali Repair Shop to replace the navcomp and drop in two back-ups. Jon holds the note and you pay as work becomes profit."

  Jon looked at her seriously. "That's sound advice, math teacher."

  "Daav has very sound judgment," Clonak chimed in, irrepressible as Var Mon, "though I grant you wouldn't think so, to look at him."

  "I—I can't ask—hold a note for a replacement—for three replacements? Master—"

  "No choice in the matter," Trilla said in her blunt, Outworld way. "Need a working comp to lift. Need work to finance the comp." She grinned. "You might take a loan against the ship, of—"

  "No!"

  "Huh." Jon again. "Sounds settled to me. I'll hold the note for my cost, plus labor. You'll pay me as able. In the meantime, if I have something to lift, you take it at your cost and we'll call that the interest. Agreed?"

  There was, as Trilla said, no choice. Still, Aelliana struggled with necessity a moment longer. A debt of such magnitude would surely increase the time she must stay upon Liad, thus increasing the chance of discovery. And yet, it was required that the ship be able, if work was to be gained.

  She inclined her head, vowing to pay this debt as quickly as she might.

  "Agreed, Master dea'Cort."

  "Good enough. When's your shift end, Daav?"

  "Midnight."

  "Glutton. Take Clonak and go pull that comp. I'll find the replacements." He smiled at Aelliana. "We'll have you up to spec by tomorrow mid-day, math teacher. I'll leave a complete accounting in your ship's in-bank."

  "Thank you," she said, feeling tears prick her eyes. She ducked her head. "I am grateful."

  Jon slid off his stool and stretched. "Same as we'd do for any of our own—no gratitude demanded."

  "Clonak, old friend, your skills are in demand!" Daav had a tool belt over one shoulder and was holding out another.

  "And I with a thought to dinner," the pudgy Scout sighed. He turned as he passed Aelliana and performed an absurdly ornate bow.

  "For you, Goddess, I forgo even food!"

  "Nor like to starve of it," Daav commented.

  "Cruel, Captain."

  "Merely honest. Come along, dear." Black eyes found hers, though she made an effort to avoid the glance.

  "Pilot Caylon, it was a rare lift. I hope to sit second for you again."

  "Thank you," she stammered and felt she should say more.

  But Daav was gone.

  "NAVCOMP PULLED, sealed and dispatched to the port master via Pilot ter'Meulen, who swears he's for a sup and a glass, lest he die of starvation."

  "Well enough," Jon allowed, pouring the dregs from the pot to his mug. He glanced over his shoulder at the slender man perched on the green stool, Patch sitting tall on his knee.

  "Pastry?"

  "Thank you, no."

  "Not stale enough for you?" Jon speared a iced dough-ring for himself and carried tea and snack over to his accustomed stool.

  "Too stale, alas. My cha'leket insists upon fresh pastries for his table, and you see how his decadence affects me."

  Jon snorted and had a bite, followed by a swallow of tea.

  "I wonder," Daav said pensively, rubbing the cat's ears. "Who certified that navcomp at refitting?"

  "Checked it myself," Jon said, somewhat indistinctly. "Sang sweet and true." He paused for more tea, and pointed a finger.

  "Occur to you to wonder how it is the chel'Mara, who never piloted anything other than a groundcar on manual in all his life, isn't splattered from here to the inland sea, running automatic with an insane navcomp?"

  "It did." Daav sighed. "I spent an hour looking for a meddle, but if it was there, it was very cleverly tucked away."

  "Don't have to be there now," Jon pointed out. "I checked the log—suspicious old man that I am—and you looking to become another such, if I may say so." He finished off the dough-ring in two bites.

  "Log says that on the night he played pikit with our math teacher and lost his ship by way of it, Vin Sin chel'Mara—that's Lord chel'Mara to you—stopped by the shop and entered his once-was ship, to clear out his personal effects. Didn't take him long. In fact, turns out he left quite a number of very expensive—and portable—items behind."

  Daav said something impolite in a language native to a certain savage tribe some fourteen zig-zagged light-years out from Liad. Jon grinned.

  "No proof. Not that I don't favor it myself, for personal reasons. The chel'Mara's very careful of his melant'i. Doesn't do a man's melant'i any good to lose his ship, true enough. But you might be able to recoup something from the debacle, if she were straightaway seen to crash it."

  "Which she might have done," Daav said, so heatedly Patch jumped to the floor. "If she had been any second class provisional, making her first sling-shot when that comp went bad—" He took a hard breath. "Your pardon."

  "Nothing to it." Jon grinned. "A rare wonder, our math teacher, eh?"

  Daav moved his shoulders. "I'd like to know who beats her."

  "I'd welcome news of that, myself. At least they didn't send her here battered and bruised-up today, small grace." He finished his tea and looked up into the younger man's eyes.

  "Good idea of yours, me holding the note."

  "I can guarantee the loan, if you like it," Daav returned quietly. "Or tell me the account and the price and I'll make the transfer now."

  "Don't be an idiot. She intends to work that ship, and I'll tell you what I think. I think what our math teacher puts her mind to do is good as done. I'll hold her note."

  "If it becomes a burden, old friend, only tell me. There's the Pilots Fund, after all."

  "So there is. Well." He bounced to his feet and stretched with a mighty groan. Daav slid lightly from the stool and stood looking down at him, affection plain in his sharp, clever face.

  "Hah." Jon smiled up at him. "You coming in tomorrow?"

  "Perhaps the day after."

  "All right, then. Glad you were to hand today. Matters could have gone ill, even if she is a wizard at the board."

  "She wouldn't have attempted the sling if I hadn't suggested—demanded—it." He hesitated. "She's a natural, Jon."

  "Is she?" the older man said, with vast unsurprise.

  Daav laughed and bowed. "Good-night, Master."

  "Good-night, lad. Convey my highest regards to your cha'leket."

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Dragon does not forget. Nor does it remember wrongly.

  —From The Liaden Book of Dragons

  "MASTER DEA'CORT sends you his best regards, brother." Daav and his cha'leket were strolling arm-in-arm across Trealla Fantrol's wide lawn, angling more-or-less toward the wild garden and the river.

  Er Thom sighed sharply. "Whatever have I done, to earn Jon dea'Cort's notice? We have scarcely exchanged a greeting in twelve years, so seldom do our paths cross, yet I cannot be abroad these last few relumma without hearing news of his regard! Only yesterday, Clonak ter'Meulen crossed Exchange Street at the Port's busiest hour to bring me Master dea'Cort's wish for my good he
alth!"

  Daav laughed. "Why, I suppose you've won his admiration, darling. Is it burdensome?"

  "Merely bewildering, since I go on quite as usual, with the exception of succeeding to yos'Galan's ring, and I cannot for my life see what that should have to do with Jon dea'Cort!"

  "Nothing at all—and you are correct in supposing a man's coming into his intended estate would utterly fail to win Jon's interest, much less his admiration. No," Daav murmured, "I believe it is your lifemating which has bought his heart."

  Er Thom stiffened and shot a brilliant violet glance into Daav's face. "My lifemating, is it? A subject which falls well outside his reasonable area of concern."

  "You are severe," Daav said, stroking the stiff arm soothingly. "Recall that Jon is a Scout. He expresses the greatest admiration for Anne's work. For yourself, he admires your—moxie, as he would have it."

  "Moxie?" Er Thom frowned after the Terran word.

  "Courage," Daav translated, rather freely. "It is not every Liaden, after all, who might lifemate a Terran, flying in the face of custom and—some would say—good sense."

  Er Thom laughed softly. "Indeed, there was hardly a choice!"

  "Yes, but you mustn't let Jon know that!" Daav said earnestly. "Allow him, I beg, to continue believing you and Anne lifemated because love was stronger than custom!"

  "Of course—" He caught himself with another slight laugh. "Let Jon dea'Cort believe what he likes, then! I only wish he will give over such lavish regard."

  "You might send him a token in Balance, if you find his esteem a burden." Daav grinned. "In fact, I believe I know just the thing! Have you a tin of that particular morning tea Anne favors?"

  "'Joyful Sunrise'? Certainly. I can easily part with a dozen, if you feel it might answer."

  "One tin should suffice, I think, and a card inscribed by your lady, desiring Master dea'Cort to enjoy the beverage as she does."

  "Hah. It shall be done this evening!" Er Thom smiled, then sobered. "What word from Pilot tel'Izak?"

  Daav lifted an eyebrow. "Word? No, no, darling—you mistake the matter entirely! It is I who ought to be about sending word. The lady believes me at her feet." He sighed lightly as they passed through the gap in the hedge. "And means, I fear, to have me remain there."

  On the other side of the hedge, Er Thom stopped, rounding with such a look of outrage that it was all Daav could do not to laugh aloud.

  "You at Samiv tel'Izak's feet? She has audacity, I see."

  "Merely self-consequence." He slanted a glance into Er Thom's indignant eyes and fetched up a doleful sigh. "You have taken her in dislike."

  "Indeed, how might I take her in anything at all, when she kept High Mode the evening through and refused to give one sight into—" Er Thom's mouth tightened. "This is a joke."

  "Ah." Daav caught the other's arm and turned him gently toward the wild garden. "Alas, it is not a joke, but plain observation. The pilot considers that Korval's solicitation of herself exposes vulnerability." He paused. Er Thom's eyes were still stormy; he stood on the knife's edge of taking the lady in extreme dislike, on Daav's account.

  And that, Daav thought suddenly, was neither seemly nor kind. For a time Samiv tel'Izak would be his wife, bound by the terms of the contract to live apart from the comforts of clan and kin, surrounded by strangers upon whom she must depend for what day-to-day gentleness one human being might have from another. To enter thus unprotected into a House where so substantial a person as her husband's cha'leket held her in despite—no, it would not do.

  "The assumption is doubtless original with the lady's delm, and is not altogether shatterbrained," he said, looking gravely into Er Thom's eyes. "Only think: All the world wishes to marry Korval—and Korval chooses Samiv tel'Izak. Those of Korval wed pilots—and she is a pilot. But there are other pilots, who are not Samiv tel'Izak, and who remain unchosen."

  Er Thom's eyes were somewhat less stormy. "True enough," he allowed, though brusquely.

  "True enough," Daav murmured and shaped his lips into a gentle smile. "Think again, brother. It was you urged me stand away, if I did not like the match. We are Scouts and traders—odd folk by any count. We might think of turning our face from custom—even at the risk of our delm's displeasure, eh?"

  Er Thom laughed quietly.

  "Yes." Daav allowed his smile to grow to a grin. "But consider one who is without our resources—to whom custom bears the weight of law—desired by her delm to come forth and take up duty. She must accept her delm's elucidation of circumstance: The Dragon offers for Samiv tel'Izak because none but herself will do." He moved his shoulders. "Shall we deny such a small comfort to one who will be so short a time among us?"

  There was a pause.

  "Certainly the lady is welcome to what comfort she may make for herself," Er Thom said softly. "I had been angered because it seemed she held you cheap."

  "My lamentable sense of humor," Daav said ruefully and offered his arm. Er Thom took it and they continued their walk along the artful wilderness, talking of this and that, until Daav turned them, regretfully, back toward the house.

  "The Council of Clans devours the remainder of my day," he said.

  "Another meeting?" Er Thom frowned. "They proliferate."

  "Geometrically," Daav agreed. "A land dispute has arisen between Mandor and Pyx. I think it a matter requiring the skills of two or three qe'andra, rather than a full Council."

  "Why not offer Mr. dea'Gauss as arbiter?" Er Thom murmured, naming Korval's own man of business.

  "Pyx has already taken up the melant'i of victim," Daav said, "and chose the Council as offering the widest scope for spite." He sighed sharply as they passed through the hedge.

  "Had you heard that Vin Sin chel'Mara lost his ship in a game of pikit?"

  "The port speaks of nothing else," Er Thom replied. "The detail that remains unclear in the reports I have heard is the name of the winner. Some say a pair of Scoutlings, some others say a professional sharp-player from Chonselta City."

  "Ah? I had heard Aelliana Caylon."

  Er Thom's winged brows pulled together. "The mathematician? Who had that tale?"

  "Clonak. His father was present during the play."

  "Well, then, there can hardly be doubt," Er Thom said, who knew Delm Guayar for a person of quite savage accuracy. "Good lift and safe landing to the scholar." He paused, his fingers exerting a mild pressure on Daav's arm.

  "Do you know," he said softly, "I had heard something else. Talk is that the chel'Mara is sent off-world by his delm, in Balance for losing his ship." He flicked a quick violet glance to his brother's face. "Which is no more than he bargained for, no matter the winner. What fool stakes his ship at chance?"

  "The chel'Mara's sort of fool, apparently," said Daav. "Well, and if Aragon is at last moved to apply discipline, then the world is twice indebted to Scholar Caylon."

  Er Thom laughed lightly. "Thrice, you must mean, brother, else you cannot have ever seen the chel'Mara fly."

  "Well," said Daav with a smile, "perhaps I do." And the talk turned to other things.

  "THAT WAS A BINJALI sling-shot, Scholar Caylon!" Var Mon hit his seat with a grin. "We scanned the tape, then rode the sims 'til dawn, but no one came close to your run—not even Rema."

  "Hardly until dawn," Rema said, entering the room with rather less energy and giving Aelliana a proper bow of greeting. "Good-day, Scholar Caylon."

  "Good-day, Rema." Aelliana returned the bow with an inclination of the head, then shook her hair back to consider Var Mon.

  "I thank you for your praise. However, it must be remembered that my co-pilot was most able. I doubt the landing would have been so adroit, had I made the attempt solo."

  Var Mon's face went abruptly and entirely blank. He lowered his eyes and bustled noisily with his notetaker.

  "No doubt but your co-pilot was exemplary," Rema murmured, over her comrade's sudden clatter. "However, the tape clearly shows it was your hand brought the ship in, Scholar. An aston
ishing run, our piloting instructor declared it."

  "And you never saw one so tightfisted of praise!" Var Mon finished, returning to his usual mode as abruptly as he had departed. "Scholar Caylon, you must go for Scout!"

  "Indeed, I must not," she replied firmly as Baan, Qiarta and Nerin arrived, made their bows and took their seats.

  "Good-day. This is, as you all know, our last session together. I have given you everything that I know how to give, to insure you each hold the best possibility for survival. In spite of my best effort, it is conceivable that I have failed of being as clear as I might have been upon this point or that. This last session is yours. What is less than glass-clear and utterly certain in your minds? Review now what we have covered throughout the semester. No point is too insignificant to ask upon. I shall take the first question in six minutes."

  That quick, notetakers were out and fingers were flying. Rema leaned back in her chair, eyes unfocused on a corner of the ceiling.

  Aelliana bent her head over her console and felt her lips curve in the rarity of her smile.

  A beautiful landing! Jon dea'Cort applauded from memory, while Daav's deep voice gave quieter praise: A difficult task, executed well. And now: A binjali sling-shot, Scholar! . . . An astonishing run . . .

  Aelliana closed her eyes and felt something loosen, down close in her chest, so the next breath she took was a shade deeper, a fraction less hurried, as if she had taken one single sip of brandy.

  The timer rang, and Aelliana raised her head, smiled at her class and lifted a hand, inviting the first question.

  THE DISPUTE BETWEEN Pyx and Mandor was resolved with gratifying speediness. No more than six additional delms had found it necessary to rise and speak of matters in tenuous relationship to the subject and the vote, when taken, showed a clear majority in favor of Mandor's claim.

  Daav shut down his tally screen, almost smiling with a surge of sheer exuberance. An entire afternoon open to his own expenditure, with no meetings and no duty pressing upon him. He considered going down to Binjali's, but that would mean returning home, to exchange his delm's finery for the comfort of his leathers. Perhaps—