The Dragon Variation

by Sharon Lee

  An alarm began to scream.

  She started—and was gone, even as he tried to hold her. "Priscilla!"

  His own cry woke him, though the alarm's din was louder. Snapping around in the tumbled bed, he slammed a violent palm against the shutoff and collapsed, eyes screwed tight against the rising lights. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!"

  The music came up: Artelma's "Festival Delights," rendered with passion on the omnichora, by his brother Val Con.

  "Damn," Shan said once more, and headed for the 'fresher.

  Some time later he passed through the dining hall on his way back from the cargo master's office. Ken Rik had been a bit less testy this morning. Perhaps he was getting over his pet at Mr. dea'Gauss's abrupt summons back to Liad.

  Priscilla and Rusty were sitting with their heads together at a corner table. Belly tight with jealousy, he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a ripe strafle melon.

  Healer! he jeered at himself. You can't even control your own emotions. And what does she project that you dare be jealous? Friendship? Those small bursts of appreciation, of comfort perceived, of desire . . . He drew a hard breath and bit into the fruit with a snap. Those are the sorts of things one might feel about anyone. Do strive for some conduct, Shan.

  "How do, Cap'n!" BillyJo greeted him from the door of the galley. "You'll be havin' a real breakfast, won't you? Can't live 'til luncheon on an apple."

  He grinned at her, talked a few moments about kitchen operations, accepted the sweet roll she pressed upon him, and refilled his cup. He left the dining hall by the side door, resolutely keeping his eyes away from the private corner.

  The message-waiting light was blinking on the captain's screen. He put the sweet roll on the edge of the bar and hit GO as he slid into the chair

  No more pin-beams from his sister, he noted. That was one fear laid to rest. He sipped coffee and scanned the directory. Nothing urgent. Well, tag the letter from Dortha Cayle. Maybe this time they had a deal. What was this?

  A pin-beam from Sintia, directed to Mr. dea'Gauss?

  He queried the item, frowning, found it was in reply to a message sent, and called it up, his memory stirring. Priscilla was from a powerful family, wasn't that it? Mr. dea'Gauss had wished to apprise them of circumstances.

  TO DEA'GAUSS CARE OF TRADE VESSEL DUTIFUL PASSAGE. FROM HOUSE MENDOZA CIRCLE RIVER SINTIA. RE QUERY PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA. DAUGHTER OF HOUSE BEARING THAT NAME BORN (LOCAL) YEAR 986, COMMENDED TO GODDESS (LOCAL) YEAR 1002. MESSAGE ENDS.

  He stared at the screen. "Commended to the Goddess"? Dead? His heart stuttered as he thought of Priscilla dead, then he shook his head sharply.

  "Don't be stupid, Shan."

  He cleared the screen and demanded Priscilla's filed identifications as well as those requested from Terran census as a matter of mindless form.

  The figures appeared side by side on the screen: retinal pattern, fingerprints, blood type, gene map.

  The woman who called herself Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, to a factor of .999.

  A Mendoza of Sintia . . . . He remembered the clammy wave of desperation, Priscilla's colorless face, her hand, warding him away: "You mustn't ask . . . ."

  But Mr. dea'Gauss had asked, damn him, and the answer returned was worse than none at all.

  He had an impulse to destroy the message. But he knew that was childish—and useless. If a reply did not arrive within a reasonable time, Mr. dea'Gauss would merely query again.

  Well, she was rather active for a corpse. He sipped coffee, staring at nothing in particular. Save the captain. Save the ship . . . .

  "What in space can she have done?"

  He sighed and finished his coffee.

  The easiest—simplest—explanation was that she had run away. It was not hard to see how Priscilla might have become disillusioned in a rigid societal structure, with all power belonging to the priestesshood.

  So, then. The young Priscilla departs; her family declares her dead, for honor's sake. What choice, after all, would they have? The local records reflect the "fact."

  But Terran census, above mere local politics, still carries one Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza alive, alive—oh.

  Simple. Comforting. Even logical. Except something was missing.

  "She could be a criminal," he told the room loudly. "I don't believe it. Lina wouldn't believe it. Mr. dea'Gauss, with no hint of empathy about him, wouldn't believe it. Ah, hell . . . ."

  Local crimes were varied and interesting, as any space traveler could attest. A felony on one planet was conduct that on the next would not cause even the mildest of middle-class grandmothers to blanch.

  Ostracism. A crime earning that punishment would have to be extreme.

  From world to world there was some variation in the most heinous crimes. Not much.

  Kin slaying. Rape. Child stealing. Murder. Mind tampering. Enslavement. Blasphemy.

  Murder? She had certainly been ready to wreak mayhem upon Sav Rid Olanek. He retained a vivid memory of that initial interview, with its racket of fury, terror, and exhaustion. Murder was possible.

  Kin slaying?

  Child stealing?

  Mind tampering? Enslavement? She was an empath—and a powerful one. Those crimes, too, were possible.

  Blasphemy?

  He sighed. Wonderful word, blasphemy. It might mean anything.

  An exact definition of her crimes was required—for the ship, and for the clan. Korval owed her much. It was vital that the person to whom the clan was in debt be known—in fullness. Priscilla Mendoza had demonstrated aboard the Dutiful Passage a melant'i both graceful and strong. She had not, however, come into existence two months ago, much as he might wish it. The captain of the Passage could order the necessary actions, or Mr. dea'Gauss could order them, for the good of Korval. In either case, Shan yos'Galan's wishes and desires meant nothing. Necessity existed.

  Hating necessity, he tapped in a new sequence and turned to issue instructions to the tower.

  Shipyear 65

  Tripday 171

  Fourth Shift

  16.00 Hours

  "Priscilla?" Gordy interrupted apologetically. "Morning, Rusty. Priscilla, I was thinking. Could you teach me to be a dragon?"

  Rusty glowered; she caught the flicker of his irritation and let it pass.

  "Dragons are possible," she admitted, considering the radiance of the boy's anticipation, "but very difficult. Some people work for years and never achieve the Dragon. It requires study and discipline." And the soul of a saint? Lina had been at pains these last busy weeks to demonstrate how empaths conducted themselves in the wide universe. Melant'i figured prominently in these lessons. Souls did not.

  At her elbow, Gordy sighed. "But you know how, don't you?"

  Did she? The Dragon was a spell of the Inmost Circle—but Moonhawk's soul was an old one. She had known the way . . . .

  Before her mind's eye the pattern rolled forth; the Inner Ear caught the first rasp of leather wings against the air. She took a breath and reversed the pattern.

  "Yes," she said, around her own wonder, "I know how. If you truly want to learn, I can begin to teach you. But there's a lot of study between the Tree and the Dragon, Gordy, and no guarantee that you'll be able to master it."

  "Could Rusty be a dragon?" Gordy asked, trying perhaps to establish a range.

  "I don't want to be a dragon," that person announced with spirit. "I like being a radio tech just fine. Don't you have someplace you need to be, kid?"

  "Not right now. I've gotta help Ken Rik in twenty minutes. Priscilla, how come not everybody can learn this dragon thing? The Tree's easy."

  "So it is." The Tree, the Room Serenity—anyone might learn these. The larger magics? Lina claimed no soul but her own. "The Tree is a very simple spell, Gordy. Only a good thing. The Dragon is both—a weapon and a shield. It's not to be used lightly. You could live a whole life without knowing need great enough to call the Dragon."

  He frown
ed. "You mean the dragon is a good thing and a bad thing? That's as goofy as Pallin's river."

  "Paradox is powerful magic. The River of Strength is a basic paradox. The Dragon is immensely complex, Gordy. You must learn to balance the good against the evil, the strength that preserves against the fire that consumes. You must be careful that the fire does not consume your will, or sheer strength override your . . . heart. You must not—soar—too close to the sun."

  Rusty's uneasiness pierced the wordnet. She pushed away from the table and smiled at them both. "Or be late for your piloting lesson with the captain. Talk with me more later, Gordy. If you're still interested. Rusty, thank you, my friend. I won't see you at prime, I'm afraid. My schedule's blocked out for the next two shifts."

  He whistled. "That's some piloting lesson."

  "No time with Kayzin Ne'Zame today." She grinned. "A vacation."

  Rusty's laughter escorted her to the door.

  She reached the shuttlebay before him. Just.

  "Good morning, Priscilla! On time, as usual."

  "Good morning, Captain."

  He stopped in his tracks, swept a bow that the carryall slung over his shoulder should have made impossible. "Second Mate. Good things find you this day. I perceive that I am in disgrace."

  "As if it would matter to you if you were!" she retorted, receiving the first rays of his pattern with something akin to thirst. Two weeks ago she would have wondered at such temerity. It was incredible how quickly she had come to depend on a sense that could not be hers.

  "It would matter a great deal," he said, waving her into the bay before him. "Nice day for a shuttle trip, don't you think?"

  It was at least reasonable. The Passage was currently in normal space, ponderously approaching Dayan in the Irrobi System.

  "If, in the judgment of the master pilot, one requires more board-time in shuttle," she said.

  "High in the boughs today, aren't you? Practice makes perfect, as Uncle Dick is wont to say. Roll in, Priscilla. Won't do to be late."

  He dropped the carryall by the copilot's chair and slid in, his eyes on the board as he adjusted the webbing. Priscilla strapped herself into the pilot's seat, feeling his excitement as if it were her own: sheer schoolboy glee at finagling a day without tutors or overseers, the thrill of some further anticipation riding above his usual pervasive delight. And a glimmer of something else, which she had first taken for his well-leashed nervous energy but now perceived as an edge, almost like worry.

  "Board to me, please," he murmured, hands busy over the keys.

  Obedient, she shunted control of the ship to the copilot's board and leaned back, watching.

  Lights glowed and darkened; chimes, beeps, and buzzes sounded as he ran the checks with a rapidity that would have dizzied any but another pilot. Air was evacuated from the bay; the hatch in the Passage's outer hull slid down, and they were tumbling away. Shan laughed softly, executed a swift series of maneuvers, cleared screens and instruments with the same flourish, and reassigned the board to her.

  "Screen, please."

  She provided it, wary now that it was too late.

  The Dutiful Passage was ridiculously far away, big as a moon in the bottom left grid. Irrobi's four little worlds hung placidly beneath her.

  Shan pointed at the second planet. "I want to be there, please. In—" He paused for a swift silver glance at the boardclock. "—eight hours, I wish to be docking at Swunaket Port. See to it." He spun the chair, snapped the webbing back, and reached for the carryall. At his touch it became a portable screen and desk. Radiating unconcern, he began to work.

  Priscilla clamped her jaw on a caustic remark and began the dreary task of determining where exactly they were in relation to where the captain wished them to be.

  Dayan

  First Sunrise

  "Swunaket Port, Captain. The pilot regrets that we have landed five Standard Minutes beforetime."

  He looked up, blinking absently. Since his pattern for the past two hours had been the steady buzz of concentration—as perhaps when one played chess—this ploy failed to deceive her.

  "Still steamed, Priscilla?" The absent look faded into a grin.

  She willed her lips into a straight line. "It was a rotten trick."

  "I remember thinking so when my father pulled it on me," he said sympathetically. "Other things, too. Most of them sadly unfilial. You did quite well, by the way, especially when we hit that bit of turbulence—all the lovely hailstones! Really, the local weather has cooperated beautifully!"

  The laughter caught her unaware, filling her belly and chest, heart and head, and, finally, the cabin. "You are a dreadful person!"

  Shan sighed and began to reassemble the portable desk. "My brother's aunt, my eldest sister—now you. I bow to accumulated wisdom, Priscilla."

  "I should think so!" The webbing snapped back into its roller as she stood. "The pilot awaits the captain's further orders."

  He set the box aside and stood, stretching with evident enjoyment. "The captain does not require the pilot's services at present, thank you. He does, however, desire the second mate to accompany him to a certain place in the town where business is to be conducted."

  She regarded him suspiciously. "What sort of business?"

  "Come, come, Priscilla, I'm a Trader. I have to trade sometime, don't I? To preserve the illusion, if nothing else."

  He bowed slightly, ironically. "And I have need of your—countenance—here. I will be walking a proper distance behind you. The address we go to is in Tralutha Siamn. The name of the firm is Fasholt and Daughters." He waved a big hand, ring glinting. "Lead on!"

  She stopped in the shadow of the gate, Shan close behind her, and stared into the street.

  Bathed in the butter-yellow light of the smaller sun, women hurried or strolled, singly or in pairs. Behind each, at a respectful three-pace distance, came a man or boy, sometimes two. One elderly woman strolled by on the arm of a younger one, both expensively jeweled and dressed, followed by a train of six boys, each heartbreakingly lovely in sober tunic and slacks.

  Priscilla frowned after them. The boys radiated a uniform contentment. Playthings, she thought. Well cared for—perhaps even beloved—pets.

  "Well, Priscilla?" His voice was very quiet, with mischief and something more sober spilling from him.

  She turned her head to glare. "Am I suppose to own you?"

  He nodded. "But don't repine." He felt the fabric of his wide sleeve between two judgmental fingers, tapped the master's ring and the intricate silver belt buckle, and stroked light fingers down a soft-clad thigh. "You obviously pamper me."

  She flushed. "I can't think why."

  "Unkind, Priscilla. I'm counted not unskilled. Also, I'm a pilot, a mechanic, a good judge of wines, fabrics, spices—"

  "And an incurable gabster!" she finished with half-amused vehemence. "If you were mine, I'd have you beaten!"

  The slanted brows lifted. "Violence? You might damage the goods, exalted lady. Best to attempt to barter for one less noisy if this one's voice displeases you."

  "Don't," she begged him, "tempt me." Back stiff, she turned and marched off.

  Head down to hide his grin, Shan followed.

  Lomar Fasholt was round-faced and rumpled; her tunic was a particularly pleasing shade of pink. She smiled widely and dismissed her daughter with a nod as Priscilla entered her office.

  "A good day to you, Sister Mendoza," Lomar said heartily, coming around the gleaming thurlwood desk and extending a fragrant hand. Priscilla took it and grinned with relief.

  "A good day to you, also, sister."

  Lomar laughed gently, her eyes going over Priscilla's shoulder. "Shannie! What a sight for old eyes you are! Have you decided to marry me, after all? Your room stands ready."

  He laughed and came forward to bow: the bow of honored- esteem, Priscilla saw. "It's good to see you, Lomar," he said gently. "How many husbands do you have now?"

  "Eight—can you believe it? But it's no use, Shan
nie, I can't not make money! And the more I make, the more husbands they insist I take." She shook her head. "The newest is only a cub, the same age as my youngest daughter! What do they—" Her hands fluttered. "Oh, well, I've set him to be schooled, poor lamb. Though it's hard to find tutors who don't feel it below their dignity to teach a boy. But here I'm rambling on, and you both standing! Come, sit down."

  "I don't think I'd do well, do you," Shan pursued, "as the ninth? There are certain freedoms I'm accustomed to." He grinned and slouched into a chair, legs thrust out before him. "Besides, I have a minor skill at making money, too. How many husbands can you support?"

  "Oh, a few more, certainly. Though not as many as they'll insist upon. If I were twenty years younger, I'd leave this silly planet and set up somewhere else. I don't know why my daughters stay—true speech!" She sat, embracing them with her smile. "Well, I thought you'd say no, my dear, but one can hope. You'd certainly keep me laughing. Why are you here, Shannie?"

  Priscilla caught the flicker of his puzzlement before he replied.

  "I'm here because I have items to trade. Korval has traded with Fasholt these last two generations."

  "And will do so no more. I'd hoped my message was clear." The round face turned sad. "It's true, isn't it, Shannie, that your family—your Clan—is headed by a man?"

  He frowned and straightened a little in the chair. "Val Con is Heir Lineal, surely—Delm-to-be. But the yos'Pheliums aren't traders, Lamar; the yos'Galans are. Two different lines."

  She considered that for a moment, then: "Who is the mother of your—Line—then, Shannie? No, that's wrong, isn't it? I don't know the right word."

  "Thodelm," he supplied, his puzzlement increasing. "I am. Lamar, what is this? Have we slighted you in some way? Have you complaint of our policy, our price? Surely it can be mended. We've dealt together so long."

  "Do you think I don't know it? Long, mutually profitable, and always such pleasant visits! Your father, always willing to sit, take a glass or two, and tell me about goings-on in the wide galaxy. You the same as he . . . ." She smiled wistfully. "Things would have been better, Shannie, if you had been a girl."