The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  "If it were board-skill alone, I would agree with you," Daav said, sitting down and bracing a heel on a stool-rung. "However, there are those things of which she knows very little."

  "And of which she ought to know much, bound as she is for the wide universe." Jon sighed. "All too true. Second class it is, then. Will you sign it?"

  "Yourself, if you will."

  "Hah. She know who you are yet?"

  Daav lifted an eyebrow. "She does not know my surname, or my clan."

  "Quibbled like a Liaden! I'll play that game to the extent it does her no harm."

  "And how shall I harm her, I wonder?" Dangerously soft, that question.

  "Gently." Jon raised both hands in the age-old gesture of surrender. "Gently, child—I meant no disrespect. Forgive an old man his meddlesome ways."

  Abruptly, Daav became aware of tense muscles, of a hand curled closed along his thigh. He shut his eyes, ran the Scout's Rainbow, and felt the tension flow away. Opening his eyes, he offered Jon a smile.

  "It is you, rather, who must forgive a young man his equally meddlesome ways—and his weariness." He showed an empty palm. "I mean her only well. If she learns the workings of comradeship through Daav, who flies out of Binjali's, where's harm in that?"

  "Well enough," Jon said, lowering his hands. "Seek your bed and we'll say no more about it."

  "In a moment." Daav shifted on the stool, sent a quick glance into Jon's face. "Dawn-time brings you rare joy, Master."

  Jon sighed. "Now what?"

  "A brace of halflings, boy and girl. They claim to be clanless."

  "Sending me your lame kittens, Captain?"

  "Not at all," Daav said austerely. "They belong to Pilot Caylon."

  "Oh, do they? And what does Pilot Caylon want me to do with them?"

  "Put them to work, if you think they might be useful."

  Jon considered him blandly. "Are they likely to be useful?"

  "Possibly. I believe them to be pilot-grade; the girl at least has had some training. They're able-bodied and quick, though not as quick as they think themselves. Cocky, but well-spoken enough when forced to the point."

  "A pair of delightful children, I see. All right. I'll hold them, pending Pilot Caylon's pleasure."

  "Thank you," said Daav and came to his feet. He tipped his head, looking down into Jon's seamed face. "Find out who they are, if you can manage it."

  Grizzled brows rose over amused amber eyes. "I thought they belonged to Pilot Caylon."

  "My lamentable curiosity," Daav murmured, moving a languid hand.

  Jon laughed. "Sleep well, lad."

  "Good evening, Master. I have no shift this three-day."

  "All right," Jon said and watched him walk, graceful and tall, across the bay and out the door.

  SHE WOKE FROM A DREAM of rich, easy safety, her mouth still curved with pleasure.

  Sunlight bleached the thin blue curtains to gray; the clock on her desk told of an hour approaching mid-day.

  The first thought that occurred was tinged with wonder: Ran Eld had allowed her to sleep through breakfast.

  Her second thought was that it was late, and she would be wanted in Solcintra.

  She flung the blanket back with energy, came to her feet and slipped on her ragged robe. The house beyond her door was quiet, the hall empty; there was no Voni barricaded in the bathroom they shared. More and more curious. Aelliana locked the door behind her and took a rapid shower.

  Back in her own room, she stared into her tiny closet with dismay, seeing the meager rack of shabby shirts and shapeless trousers as if for the first time. Exploration did uncover an orange day shirt laced with black cord, of a slightly more recent vintage than the rest, and a pair of tough indigo trousers that required only minimal pleating with a wide black belt. In the very back of the closet, she found the blue jacket her grandmother had given her on the occasion of her fifteenth name day.

  The bold blue had faded somewhat, but the lining was whole, the outer shell water-resistant. She shrugged it on.

  That she not outgrow so expensive an item before she had used it fully, the jacket had been bought too large. It settled over her shoulders now as if it had been made for her. Aelliana smiled.

  Then it was time to leave.

  Cautiously, she stepped out into the empty hall. From below, she heard the sound of a door opening, and the waspish echo of Ran Eld's voice.

  There was no time to be lost. Heart in mouth, she ghosted down the hall to the back stairs, thence out into the world.

  "MORNING, MATH TEACHER."

  "Good morning, Jon," Aelliana said, stopping to stroke Patch. She straightened and looked around her. The garage was unusually quiet; neither Trilla nor any other of Binjali's changeable crew in sight. She turned back to Jon.

  "I wonder—did—did the pirates come to you?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Pirates? I wouldn't rate 'em much higher than Port rats, myself." He used his chin to point at the crew door. "They're here. Trilla's got them doing clean-up on Number Six Pad."

  "Oh." Tension eased out of her, though a wrinkle of worry remained around the bright green eyes.

  She was in looks today, Jon thought with approval, and dressed like she'd paid some attention to the matter instead just draping herself in whatever outsized bits of clothing came to hand. The tawny hair was combed neatly back over her ears and caught into a tail, showing the world a face at once ethereal and intelligent.

  Some fitting clothes and a sprinkle of jewels and no one in the room would deny her a beauty, Jon thought, and said aloud, "Well?"

  The worry intensified. "I was afraid you would care, though Daav—" She cleared her throat. "I meant no assault upon your melant'i, Jon."

  "Take more than a gaggle of halflings to do that," he said gruffly. "You sent them to work off a debt, according to their tale. I've enough unskilled labor to keep them a day or two, and welcome they are to all of it. But what will you do with them after that? Turn them back onto the Port?"

  She stared at him, eyes wide. "They're clanless."

  "So they said."

  "To turn them back onto the Port, after having taught them to hope—" She caught herself, teeth indenting her lower lip.

  "I do not consider," she began anew, after a moment. "I do not consider that they are stupid, or even without honor. They were frightened and in despair, which condition might make a thief of anyone. They are very quick, and—and pilot-like. Surely, they can be trained—"

  "Might be," Jon agreed, "if they had clan. Them claiming no one, that gets tricky. Though," he amended, seeing she was disposed to take it hard, "if they're real good, or found a patron, they might gain the Academy. The Scouts don't care who's clanless."

  Hope showed in her thin face, tempered with wariness. "Are they—real good?"

  "Too soon to tell. They're sharp enough—and quick, as you say. Whether they're quick enough, or sharp—that wants testing. Also—" He eyed her consideringly. "Might be only one will make it. I think the girl's some faster."

  "And the boy seems somewhat sharper," Aelliana returned, chewing on her lower lip. "And the Scouts do train others, who are never meant to be fully Scouts." She raised her eyes. "My name was cantra, you said, at Academy."

  "That's right."

  "Then there may be a way, though I doubt two days is long enough to find who they are themselves. Perhaps—"

  "I'll find work," Jon interrupted. "We'll keep them by long enough to test them fairly."

  She smiled, and there was no need for jewels or fine clothes to make her beautiful, Jon thought.

  "Thank you," she said. "You are very kind."

  "I'm an interfering old man," he corrected her, and swept a hand toward the back and his office. "Daav left you a thing, if you'd care to claim it."

  Eagerness made the bright eyes brighter. "Yes."

  They went side-by-side, Aelliana carrying Patch.

  "You'll spoil him so he'll always want a ride," Jon grumbled and almost gasped to
hear her laugh.

  "I must carry him or I cannot walk," she said. "Which is worse: To stand for hours stroking him, or to carry him where I wish to go?"

  "I'll put a team on it," he said and bowed her into the office ahead of him.

  She paused at the near side of his desk to put Patch down; Jon went 'round to the terminal side and fingered a stack of hardcopy.

  "Here we are." He held it out; watched her take the thin metal card, disbelief warring with joy across her face.

  "Second class." Wonder gleamed along her voice.

  "Daav left me a tape of yesterday's little adventure, along with his recommendation that you be relieved of provisional. Asked me to get the card to you, if I agreed." He grinned then, in simple pride of her. "If I agreed! How I could do other than agree is what I'd like to know!" He held out his hand. "Binjali flying, pilot."

  She blinked at the outstretched hand, extended her own and met his firmly.

  Jon grinned again, gave her fingers a little squeeze and released her.

  "I'll have to speak to Master Daav about his methods," he said. "To expose a new pilot to that level of stress—"

  "Indeed," Aelliana said earnestly, clutching the precious card tightly. "Indeed, I had asked him to—to try me fully. My need is for working first class in no more than a year."

  "If he keeps you at this pace, you'll be working master in two relumma," Jon told her, with very little exaggeration.

  She smiled briefly. "I shall need to update my registration with the guild," she said. "And with Korval." She looked up, suddenly hesitant.

  "Is Daav working today? Or—possibly—tomorrow?"

  "Left word not to expect him for a day or three," Jon said, and marked how her shoulders drooped inside the blue jacket.

  "I—see." Another hesitation, then a deliberate squaring of those thin shoulders. "I wonder—is there someone willing to sit second for me tomorrow? I wish to lift—early."

  A second class pilot lifting in local space did not require a copilot, according to regs. However, Daav, damn him for a pirate, had shown her Little Jump and Jon dea'Cort was too wily an old piloting instructor to think that one brief taste of hyperspace would suffice her. Indeed, it was to her honor, that she asked for second board.

  "Clonak's due early tomorrow," he said. "Or I could spare Trilla, if you'd rather. You'd best chose who, otherwise you'll have them fighting for the honor."

  She smiled and moved her shoulders, disbelieving him. "Is Clonak never serious?"

  "Clonak's a damn' fine pilot," Jon said soberly. "Daav came up drinking coil fluid instead of tea—they haven't built the ship he can't fly. Got the master's easy as breathing. It wasn't that way with Clonak. He sweated for every equation, bled for every coord. He learned his piloting piece by piece and he earned that license. You can learn from him, if you care to."

  Aelliana inclined her head. "I care to learn all I can about piloting," she said. "If Clonak will fly with me, I will have him with joy."

  "I'll tell him," Jon said. "When do you lift?"

  Something flickered over her face: Jon read it as mingled exhilaration and terror.

  "An hour after Solcintra dawn," she said firmly.

  "I'll tell him," Jon repeated and she inclined her head.

  From the main garage came the sound of exuberant voices.

  "Trilla's back," Jon said, moving around the desk. "Care to have a word with your rescues?"

  Aelliana hung back a instant after Jon left, looking quickly down at the card in her hand: Second class, dated this very day. Fingers none too steady, she turned it over, found the name of the master pilot certifying grade . . .

  Jon dea'Cort.

  She sighed, then, and put the card safely into her pocket before going to make the re-acquaintance of the pirates.

  "PARDON US, PILOT, but are you Aelliana-Caylon-who-rewrote-the-ven'Tura Tables?" The boy's face was earnest.

  She inclined her head. "I am."

  "I told you so!" he rounded on his mate, who had the grace to look abashed. He turned back to Aelliana. "Yolan thought you weren't old enough. In fact," he added, flicking another glance at the girl, "she thought the tables had been revised fifty or sixty years ago!"

  "Well, what does it matter when they were revised," the girl snapped, "as long as they're correct?"

  "Very true," Aelliana said gravely and Yolan sent her a quick glance before ducking her head.

  "Indeed, Pilot, Sed Ric and me are grateful for your—patronage—to Master dea'Cort. We'd looked for work, but no one would have us . . ." She looked to her partner, who promptly took up his part.

  "We're also grateful to the fox-face—to your partner—for putting us in the way of a meal. We don't intend that he be out of pocket for . . ."

  Aelliana frowned and the boy stumbled to a halt, stricken. She sighed, releasing the irritation she felt on Daav's account—fox-face, indeed!—and moved her hands in the gesture for peace.

  "You may give him his rank, which is captain," she said, with a measure of austerity she had not intended.

  Yolan flicked a mischievous look aside. "Captain Fox," she told her partner, soto voce.

  Aelliana turned toward her, but before she could deliver the blistering set-down rising to her tongue, Jon dea'Cort spoke up.

  "In point of fact," he said, considering the pirates impartially over the rim of his mug, "Scout Captain Fox."

  "Scout!" The boy sagged—laughed, short and sharp. "Of all the marks to pick up—a Scout and the Caylon! Our luck, Yolan!"

  "Seems exactly like," she agreed wryly and looked back to Aelliana.

  "We meant no disrespect to the captain, Pilot. It's only we didn't know what to call him, isn't it Sed Ric?"

  "That's right," he said eagerly. "We'll speak him fair, Pilot—you needn't blush that you know us!"

  "Very well," Aelliana said, after a short silence. "Master dea'Cort has said that you may work for him until—until such work as he has is complete. I expect you will comport yourselves honorably and give honest work for honest wages. If Master dea'Cort should find it necessary to turn you off, you needn't look for grace a second time."

  "No, Pilot," the boy said, bowing low; and: "Yes, Pilot," said the girl, bowing equally low.

  Aelliana looked over their bent heads to where Jon leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. He grinned at her and one hand came up to shape the word, binjali.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Be aware of those actions undertaken in your name . . .

  —From the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct

  FOUR HOURS' SLEEP and a shower did much toward restoring one's perspective. Robed, damp hair loose along his shoulders, Daav poured himself a glass of morning wine and padded out to his private study.

  He had barely crossed the threshold into this rather cluttered chamber when the comm chimed.

  Six people had the number to Daav's private line: Er Thom; Clonak ter'Meulen; Scout Lieutenant Olwen sel'Iprith, former lover, former team-mate, currently off-planet; Frad Jinmaer, another team-mate; Fer Gun pen'Uldra, his father, also off-planet—and Aelliana Caylon.

  The chime sounded again; Daav had crossed the room and struck the connect key before the note was done.

  "Yes."

  Er Thom's image was serious, even for Er Thom; the inclination of the head stiffly formal.

  "The delm is hereby made aware of yos'Galan's Balance to an insult received of Clan Sykun."

  Balance . . . Daav sank to the arm of his desk chair, staring into Er Thom's eyes. He read anger; he read resolution; worry—and an utter absence of grief. Anne and the child were safe, then.

  "The delm hears," he said, the High Tongue chill along his tongue. He moved a hand in query and dropped into the Low Tongue.

  "What's amiss, darling?"

  Er Thom took a hard breath. "Delm Sykun found it fitting to turn her back upon Thodelmae yos'Galan at a public gather this morning." He paused. "You haven't heard?"

  "I've just risen," Daav said, r
eaching for the keypad. "You know how slugabed I am." Three keystrokes accessed the house computer and his mail.

  "My, my. A letter of apology from Ixin. An apology from Asta. A letter from Lady yo'Lanna, promising to strike Sykun from her guest list—" He glanced over to Er Thom, still and solemn in the comm screen.

  "There's a good come out of whatever it is. Lady yo'Lanna does so love to strike people from her guest list."

  Er Thom did not smile. "As you say. Mr. dea'Gauss has been instructed to sell any stock yos'Galan may hold in Sykun's concerns—at a loss, if necessary, and noisily. Letters of cancellation have been issued on all contracts yos'Galan holds with Sykun. Mr. dea'Gauss has advised that he will also be selling his private holdings of Sykun business."

  "Hah." Daav tapped more keys, mind racing. A public cut was a serious matter, demanding swift and unhesitant answer. Such a cut to Anne Davis, Lady yos'Galan, author of a text which linked Terra to Liad in a manner not likely to find acceptance among many Liadens—It could not be said that Er Thom's answer was too harsh.

  That Korval's man of business also chose to enter Balance was eloquent of the magnitude of the insult. In Mr. dea'Gauss were mated pure melant'i and an exacting sense of honor.

  "Aha. I have Mr. dea'Gauss' analysis," he said to Er Thom. "The Pilots Fund holds four hundred of Sykun's shares." He touched a key, scanning the file rapidly, and grinned.

  "Mr. dea'Gauss indicates that the Fund shall realize sufficient cash from the sale of these four hundred shares to buy a block of stock in Vonlet's instrumentation venture." He flicked another glance to Er Thom's face, finding it marginally less angry.

  "In fact, Mr. dea'Gauss is in a fair way to considering the incident fortuitous."

  A smile showed unwillingly at the corner of Er Thom's mouth. "Hardly that, though one readily comprehends Mr. dea'Gauss' thoughts upon the subject."

  "Just so," Daav agreed, keying in instructions for his man of business to sell any and all Sykun shares held by Korval or, privately, by Daav yos'Phelium.

  "Shall the delm take further action?" Er Thom asked, very softly.