Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

She laughed again and pulled away, shoving the piece of paper under his nose.

  “Came out of the machine. Any idea what it means?”

  “Ah.” He slipped it from her fingers; read it with a nod. “On many worlds it would mean that you are a genius, Miri. The module is set up to test gain and chart the student’s recall. A defective person, for instance, would have been expelled from the program after the first test demonstrated that no learning had taken place. Those scores,” he handed the paper back, “will have triggered an accelerated program.”

  “Genius?” She frowned at him, then at the paper.

  “Genius.” Val Con sighed gently; reached to tap the paper. “On Liad, these scores would gain you admittance to Scout Academy. Since you have also demonstrated ability to operate—and prosper—in a low-tech culture, you would likely be admitted to the middle class.”

  “I ain’t a pilot,” Miri protested, thinking that scouts were the best there was. Thinking that Val Con was a scout. Thinking that it had to be a glitch in the machine somewhere. Thinking . . .

  “It can be arranged,” Val Con was saying, “to have groundwork laid for piloting lessons while you are sleep-learning—a matter of appending the program to your study of the Code. It is only a preparatory program, of course, but I can teach you the math and the board-drills.”

  “Sure,” Miri said, absently.

  “Good. Would you like some tea?”

  “Huh?” She shook out of her reverie, looked at the paper again—written in Liaden, she noticed, then, but was beyond being surprised. “Tea’d be fine, thanks. Gotta take my vitamins anyway.”

  “Yes.” He went to the menu board and she followed. “I suggest you use the Rainbow tonight, cha’trez, to anchor today’s learning. Tomorrow you should be able to do all three sessions.”

  “All three—!” She glared at his back and then sighed, recalling another bit of learning. “Guess if I’m gonna have this melant’i stuff to take care of, I’d better get the rules right.” She took the cup out of his hand.

  “Genius, huh?” She shook her head. “Tell you what, though, boss—I don’t feel the least bit smart.”

  DELGADO:

  Bjornson—Bellevale

  College of Art and Sciences

  “. . . coffee, flapjacks and YOO-oo-OO!” The voice wavered unmelodically, though with evident sincerity, from edge-orbit across the general beam and into the tiny professorial office. The man at the desk glanced over his shoulder at the beam-set, frown flickering into a smile as he recognized Number Three-Fifty-Eight singing his way into port, if not into the heart of Vail Runner’s satiric mistress, as he did precisely at the professor’s midnight, every night.

  “Speak to me, beautiful Captain!” the singer urged against the background chatter of half-a-hundred ships, from port to the fringe of the third world out; and in blithe disregard of the possibility that there might be any number of beautiful captains within hearing.

  “Sorry, Three-Five-Eight. Thought you were in the middle of breakfast.” The woman’s voice was cool, with an undercurrent of amusement, precisely as always. The professor smiled again and turned back to the screen and the thesis he was grading.

  A singularly disappointing document, truth told; even though the author had not been one from whom he had hoped great things. However, one liked to know that a little learning had taken place, even in the least promising of scholars. Ah, well, they were but at the mid-term. Perhaps guidance might yet produce thought.

  So thinking, he brought his wandering attention more firmly back to the thesis, seeking the most profitable means of providing guidance. Behind him, Three-Fifty-Eight pled his case with the cool-voiced lady, one tile in a familiar, comforting mosaic of voices. The professor listened with half-an-ear, then with even less, as the key to guidance presented itself and he gave it his full attention.

  ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

  It snarled across the familiar mosaic like an angry boot heel. The professor had already spun in his chair, dark eyes intense on the squat receiver as if he would see through it to the ship that carried so urgent a message.

  ATTENTION! ALL JUNTAVAS EMPLOYEES, SUPPORTERS, DEPENDENTS, ALLIES SHALL FROM RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE FORWARD RENDER ASSISTANCE, AID AND COMFORT TO SERGEANT MIRI ROBERTSON, CITIZEN OF TERRA; AND SCOUT COMMANDER VAL CON YOS’PHELIUM, CITIZEN OF LIAD; TOGETHER OR SINGLY; REDIRECTING, WHERE NECESSARY, YOUR OWN ACTIVITIES. REPEAT: AID AND COMFORT TO MIRI ROBERTSON AND/OR VAL CON YOS’PHELIUM IMPERATIVE, PRIORITY HIGHEST.

  MESSAGE REPEATS. . .

  That quickly it was done, gone; leaving nothing but dead beam for a heartbeat—for two. . .

  “What the hell was that!” The irrepressible Three-Fifty-Eight.

  “Courier ship,” snapped someone else and, “You should’ve seen that brother go! Third planet kick-off, skimmed in, dropped it and gone!”

  Five days out. The professor eased out of his chair, went with wary, silent grace across the room to the little receiver, staring at it as if it had suddenly become something quite else.

  “Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium,” he whispered, extending a hand to touch the power-off. “Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium . . .”

  He turned, paced the length of the tiny office—five of his strides—and the width—five more—until he came again to the desk and the work awaiting him. A hand slipped into one pocket; emerged—and he stood staring down at the flat gleam of a ship’s key, incongruous in his soft, scholar’s palm.

  Professors of cultural genetics did not as a rule own spaceships. He sighed and slipped the key away.

  So deep a cover, constructed over so many years. . .

  He shook his head, banishing the thought with the key and sat once again to his work, trying to recapture his previous mood of gentle instruction. Screen-light gleamed off his single ring—three stands of silver, twisted into a flat knot, worn on the smallest finger of his left hand. After a moment, he sighed again, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium. . .

  LYTAXIN:

  Approaching Erob

  House. She was sure that was the word. House.

  Sleep-learning had reinforced her vocabulary, made her comfortable with sounds and meanings, and the recent social encounter at the landing field had almost convinced her she had all things Liaden by the scruff of the neck.

  House.

  It was huge.

  Miri stopped on the crest of the gentle rise, staring up at the long expanse of velvet-lawned hill, and the u-shaped sweep of gray-and-black stone, several stories high. The house, that was. She looked at Val Con.

  “Are you sure?”

  He glanced away from his own study of the landscape, one brow quirking. “It does seem to be a clanhouse,” he murmured; “but recall that I have never called upon Erob, either.”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s as big as a hyatt,” she told him, stating the obvious in as calm a voice as she could muster. “A big hyatt. Maybe we got the wrong directions. Maybe it is a hyatt, which ain’t all that bad. We could maybe get a room if we got enough money, and call ahead.”

  Val Con grinned and stroked her cheek. “This is a frontier world, cha’trez—the entire clan would live in one house, plus necessary staff, plus guesting rooms, contract-suites, administration, supplies.

  “Recall that this is the capital-in-fact of the planet until they recover from the revolt—actually the center of the world in some ways even before.” He lifted a shoulder. “I would say that they have no more space than they likely need, depending upon the size of the clan and the amount of administration they feel it necessary to perform.”

  “Gods.” She looked at him, suddenly struck with a thought. “Is your house this big? The one you grew up in?”

  “I grew up in Trealla Fantrol,” he said softly; “yos’Galan’s line house. It is very grand, of course, but not nearly so large as this. Korval has never ruled the world.” He offered his hand, smiling.

>   After a moment, Miri dredged up a smile of her own, wove her fingers around his and went with him, toward the house.

  ***

  The good thing about being on world was the smells. The breeze. The colors. The hand in hers. The quiet.

  That was an odd one, Miri realized as they walked paths that had only recently been guard marches and troop routes. Quiet.

  As many worlds as she’d been on, none of the planetfalls had been like this. Leisurely, and—aside from her own certainty of ruin at the end—calm. The weapons checks were habit, the vitamin dosages learning aids rather than war-prep, the entry to atmosphere a tourist’s wonder of ocean, continents, and icecaps.

  They’d come in as the cordon around the planet was being dismantled. Troop and guard ships alike had failed to notice them—as Val Con had prophesied—and there’d been no alerts, no threats, and no danger.

  For three orbits Lytaxin had spun below them. The radio had told the tale pretty clearly: A stupid and bungled coup attempt followed by a dirty little war mostly confined to a single continent. The mercs had come quickly.

  What they hadn’t gotten from the radio they had soon enough from Riaska ter’Meulen. Now there was a person who could talk. She’d limped out of the office of the little general aviation field, to Miri’s eye unflapped by the sudden and unannounced appearance of their—of the Department of Interior’s—vessel.

  “Scouts,” she’d said, nodding a rather unconventional kind of a bow at both of them. “How may I be of service? And how shall I register your visit?”

  Val Con returned the nod with a formal bow. “Of your kindness, register the ship as Fosterling, out of Liad, piloted by Val Con yos’Phelium, Clan Korval. Business of the clan.”

  The woman made her own bow at that point and Miri’s new-poured training kicked into gear. Val Con’s bow, acknowledging what?—personal debt, personal respect?—to the clan of an ally or friend of his clan? And ter’Meulen’s bow acknowledging . . . acceptance of respect and recognition of the—honor, was it, of being so acknowledged?

  She walked with them across the airfield, discussing the war, her limp growing more evident with each step. She stopped them in front of an open hanger housing a vintage ground attack aircraft.

  “Pilot of Korval, I expect you are well-placed to assist us. This is the official airfield defense craft. It and its kin were gifts of Korval, and before the war we had perhaps a double dozen of them. There were five here, but all save this one went off in The Long Raid. I understand that the contingent on the islands were destroyed by our side, and Erob’s allies in the highlands used theirs until they were relieved by the mercenaries. The Long Raid was their idea, I gather—stuff enough fuel and strip enough weight to get them ’cross the ocean . . .”

  Val Con listened, quiet, while Miri nodded at the good sense of the tactic. Sounded like the kind of thing Kindle would pull together.

  “Many planes were shot down—where Clan Kenso got weapons like that I’d give the rest of my leg to know!—and so I have this . . .” She bowed toward the plane—fond respect, Miri thought.

  “Parts are hard to come by, and while this one flies, and will continue in its duty, it would be good to have spare parts. If there might be a way—the patterns and the equipment that built them are on Liad, in your own shops.”

  Val Con bowed. “As time permits I shall speak to the first speaker.”

  Riaska ter’Meulen bowed. “I am grateful.”

  “Cars are yet in short supply,” she said then. “May I call the House and have them send, or may I offer you service of my flitter?” A wave of a hand indicated a tiny craft—barely more than a cabin over a lift-fan.

  Miri stirred, in no hurry to raise the house and seeing no need to deprive a wounded woman of transport.

  “It’s a fine day,” she said to Riaska ter’Meulen, in the mode of equals, “and we’ve been long aboard. A walk will be welcome.”

  The woman bowed again, willing equality. “As you say. Allow me to point you on your way.”

  ***

  They stopped just short of the three low stairs leading to a sort of black stone dais and a front door that was all pieces of high-glaze tile forming a field of indigo, across which a crimson bird stooped toward a gold-limned mountain, far below. Miri felt the hairs lift at the back of her neck and her free hand touched her pouch, where a miniature of that very design rode, perfect in every detail.

  She shook her head sharply and frowned, slanting a glance at her partner’s face; saw him gazing with sharp interest to the left.

  “You gonna ring the bell or not?” she demanded.

  “In a moment.” He set off across that soft, resilient lawn purposefully; fingers still firm and warm around hers.

  And stopped in front of a tree.

  It was a largish tree, Miri thought, with a pleasingly tree-like trunk and nice, broad, four-fingered leaves a shade greener and a shade less blue than the grass. Nuts or seedpods hung in clusters here and there and the whole thing smelled good, in a kind of olfactory tree-ness.

  Val Con loosed her hand, took another step toward the tree and bowed. Deeply. With the stylized hand-sign that offered instant, willing, and unquestioning service.

  “I bring thee greeting, child of Jela’s hope,” he said in the High Tongue, but in a dialect beyond any of those Miri had studied in her crash-course sleep-learning. She thought it might be related to the mode used by the most junior servant to the ultimate authority—and then thought that was crazy.

  “When last this one visited the homeworld,” Val Con was telling the tree, “thy elder kin yet flourished, grew, and nurtured. The charge is kept and the guard continues. When next this one is upon the homeworld, thy name shall be whispered to the elder’s leaves.”

  He stood for a moment or two then, head bowed, maybe listening to the little rustling sounds the breeze made against the leaves. Then he bowed again, like he was going to ask a favor.

  “This one has not had grace of Jela’s children in some years, and this one’s lady has yet to know the elder. In need, this one asks the boon of two fruit, and one leaf.”

  He stepped forward then, reaching high; and pulled two nuts free from the lowest cluster. He plucked a leaf from the same branch and stepped back, bowing thanks.

  Grinning, then, he cracked a nut and handed it to her; cracked open the second and pulled the shell apart, revealing a plump pink kernel.

  “These are good,” he said, back in Terran. “I ate quite a number of them when I was a child, to the gardener’s dismay.”

  Miri pulled her own nut apart, blinking in surprise at the aroma. She paused in the act of fishing the meat out and looked at her partner.

  “It’s a nice tree, boss. Does it talk back?”

  “Eh?” He blinked, then laughed. “Ah, I had forgotten . . . There is a very old Tree on Liad that my clan is—involved with. A long story. The name of that Tree is Jelaza Kazone. This tree here is a seedling of that, so it behooves me to pay courtesy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Um.” Miri nibbled the kernel, finding it delicious. “How do you know this one’s related to yours?”

  “There is only one Jelaza Kazone,” Val Con murmured. “And Korval does occasionally seal—certain—contracts with the gift of a seedling.”

  “Right.” The nut was gone. Miri sighed in real regret and looked up as Val Con handed her the leaf.

  “Wear this in your belt, cha’trez. Are you done? Good. Let us ring the bell.”

  ***

  The doorkeeper was young, narrow-shouldered and too thin; the fragile bones almost showing through the translucent golden skin. His hair was pale red, shading toward blond, and tumbling over a high forehead, not quite hiding the bruises at both temples, where the combat helmet had been too tight. The blue eyes were wary, with a darker shadow, lurking far back.

  “Delm Erob?” he repeated, looking from Val Con to her and back again. And seeing, Miri knew from the slight change of expression, two soldiers, coming wh
ere they shouldn’t be, asking for somebody they had no business to see.

  “The delm is quite busy,” he said now, speaking the High Tongue in the mid-mode reserved for strangers whose melant’i was yet unclear. “If you will acquaint me with your difficulty, sir—ma’am—perhaps I may direct you to the proper person.”

  “It is essential,” Val Con said, his own mode shifting subtly, so that he spoke from senior to junior, “that we speak to Delm Erob with all speed, young sir.”

  The boy’s cheeks flushed darker gold, but he let no hint of that spurt of temper enter his voice. “I must insist you acquaint me more particularly with your mission, sir. If you are separated from your unit—if you have not received proper pay—if you have missed your transport—none of these difficulties will be addressed by Delm Erob, though Clan Erob is able to solve any or all for you. I merely require adequate information.”

  Not too bad, Miri thought, for a kid who was obviously out on his feet and at the tail end of seeing and doing a bunch of stuff he’d probably rather never have known about. The blue eyes shifted to her and she gave him a grin of encouragement before the sleep-learning kicked in and let her know that was a mistake. The kid frowned, eyes suddenly hard.

  “Have you been in our garden?” he demanded, mode shifting fast toward belligerence, courtesy forgotten in outrage. “Have you defaced our tree?”

  Miri came to full attention, eyes tight on his. “We have certainly not defaced your tree!” she snapped, in a mode very close to the voice she used to chew out a soldier who’d been particularly stupid. “We asked grace for the leaf and it was freely given.”

  The boy’s face altered amazingly, shifting from outrage to shock to a sudden dawning dread. He touched his tongue to his lips and brought his eyes back to Val Con.

  “We do,” Val Con said, gently, and still only in the mode of senior to junior, though he could have done much worse to the kid than that, “very much desire to speak with Delm Erob. Now, if possible. You may say that the Second Speaker of Clan Korval is calling, regarding a daughter of your House.”