by Sharon Lee
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I will unite the territories,” he said, sounding altogether sane. “We shall have laws and contracts. We shall have free and easy travel between streets, even to the spaceport itself. We shall rejoin the Health Net. There will be schools, libraries and clinics. Children and adults will take advantage of these benefits without fear for their lives. I will accomplish this thing.”
“Pat Rin . . .”
“We will begin by annexing Boss Deacon’s territory.”
Natesa shook her head, torn between impatience and pity. “Pat Rin, Boss Deacon is well-protected. More, his territory lies in the opposite direction of our goals.”
“You have not attended,” he chided her gently. “I will unite the territories. Thus, we will take first he who has dared to deal death to one of mine. It shall serve as a lesson, and bring us to the attention of those others with whom we will need to treat.”
“And, having done so,” she said with asperity, “you will receive even more assassins into your presence, until one of them succeeds.”
“Inas, we can prevail—not without blood, no. And perhaps we shall entertain more assassins before we win through. But it can be done. I see it. I know how to proceed.”
Pity overruled impatience. His mind had broken beneath the burden of his griefs. Had she been other than a Sector Judge, she might well have cast herself to her knees and sent up a wail to the heedless gods, which was how one grieved for the dead and the demented on the distant, unlamented world of her birth.
Instead, she extended a hand and touched his shoulder, lightly, companionably.
“It is good that you have a plan. Mr. McFarland is below stairs. Let us go to him and discuss procedures over tea and cheese.”
She had not expected to so easily persuade him, but he rose at her word, slipping the blanket from his shoulders and folding it neatly over his arm.
“Let us do that,” he said, still in that soft, oh-so-sane voice. “Silk—we descend.” He inclined his head, courtesy itself. “Inas, after you.”
DAY 50
Standard Year 1393
Lytaxin
Erob’s Clanhouse and Gardens
DESPITE HIS LACK of haste, Shan reached the proper suite rather sooner than he would have liked, and, stifling a sigh, put his palm against the plate.
A chime sounded, faint on the far side of the door. The last note had not quite faded from the ear when the door whipped open, revealing a Liaden woman of exceptional beauty, golden hair sweeping her stiff shoulders, violet eyes wide in a face so rigidly calm it seemed a sculpture, audaciously formed from pure, pale gold, rather than living flesh. Shan’s ravaged Healer senses perceived the expected anger, twined with equal parts terror and relief—a volatile combination which did not bode well for calm discourse between siblings.
Well, nothing for it but to begin, he thought, and swept an elder brother’s affectionate bow.
“Good evening, sister,” he said, choosing the Low Tongue, which was Nova’s preferred language, rather than Terran, which was his. “How delightful to find you here! I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
Nova’s mouth tightened. “A pleasant journey,” she repeated, so flatly as to be entirely modeless. She took a breath and stepped back, moving her hand in the gesture of welcome. “Pray enter, brother.”
Perforce, he entered and wandered down the room to the wine table. He picked up a glass and poured a portion of Erob’s agreeable, everyday red into it, which really was too bad of him. The Code dictated that he wait until he was offered refreshment, but, then, the Code also taught that informality among kin was acceptable. In any case, it offered Nova opportunity to be irritated in a minor chord, and perhaps would leach off a measure of that explosive mix of emotion.
“Wine, sister?” he inquired over his shoulder. “Erob’s red is quite passable. The canary is a touch sweet and I found the jade musty the other day—though perhaps that was merely a bad bottle.”
“The red, of your kindness,” Nova said, calmly, beside him. Shan sighed inwardly. Well, he had survived the full lash of Nova’s temper more times than he could count; he could doubtless survive it now. He poured a second glass of red, and handed it to his sister, who inclined her head and took one small sip.
Shan sipped his wine and counted, slowly, toward twelve.
He had reached nine when Nova abruptly put her glass on the table, and brought her eyes up to meet his.
“I had occasion to trade news with Priscilla Mendoza just recently,” she said, conversationally. “She tells me that our brother and Miri Robertson rejoice in a true lifemating.”
“Oh, it’s a wizard’s match, plain enough,” Shan said with false good cheer. “I can see the linkage clearly—any Healer may, who cares to risk having their Sight dazzled for hours.”
“I see.” She paused, tension screaming in every line of her. Still, her voice was calm and even when she spoke again.
“Priscilla now calls herself captain of Dutiful Passage and allows me to know that she is come into yos’Galan as a thodelm’s lifemate.”
Shan grinned. “Never have I held Priscilla’s courage in higher esteem!”
Nova sighed. “Another true lifemating, brother? One would . . . dislike to believe that you set aside your first speaker’s word from mere willfulness.”
“Mere willfulness?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are we or are we not of Korval? We are never merely willful. Surely your study of the Diaries has revealed that to you!”
“Shan.”
He sighed and rubbed the tip of his nose. “I cannot judge. The only measures I have are what I see between Val Con and Miri—and what I saw between our parents. I—we—are something—other. Though what manner of other, I am at a loss to know.” Another sigh, sharper. “I need to see Priscilla.” And that, he thought, was a piece of understatement worthy of Val Con himself.
“She expressed a similar need.” Nova picked up her glass and drank off some wine as if it were a not-very-tasty tonic. “So, I find both of my brothers lifemated with recourse to neither Code nor first speaker. We will inaugurate a vogue, and bring runaway matings into fashion.”
She finished the wine in a snap and put the glass back on the table.
“Priscilla’s other news concerned Val Con’s health,” she said, calm, so calm, while the flames of her dismay and fury suddenly leaped, fair scorching him. “I am to know that he is desperately wounded, barely escaping his death, and that he may arise from the catastrophe unit unable to fly.”
Oh, Shan thought. Oh, damn.
“The med techs have,” he said carefully, “expressed differing opinions. Some believe that Val Con will at first be all but entirely disabled, but that he will, over time, improve, even learning to walk again. That is the extreme view.” He paused.
Nova’s face had paled considerably, but she waved at him to continue.
“The less extreme view is that Val Con will emerge able in almost every way, except in his possession of the reaction times necessary to a master pilot, much less a scout pilot. These also believe that his health will remain fragile for some years, if not for the remainder of his life.”
Nova was now pale to the lips, but she watched his face unwaveringly, and for a second time waved at him to go on.
“The most optimistic,” he said, neglecting to add that this group was comprised entirely of himself, two Clutch turtles, now soundly asleep in Erob’s atrium, and Miri Robertson Tiazan. “The most optimistic believe that our brother will awaken to himself complete and unimpaired.”
Nova blinked.
“How can opinions diverge by so much?” she demanded. “The first and the second are consistent in affect, merely different in degree. But—that he awaken completely healed? How—”
Shan sipped his wine, deliberately buying time. Nova was going to like the risk they had taken with Val Con’s life even less than the med techs had. And yet, to deny her hope, when he felt her terror for Val
Con almost as his own . . .
“You must understand that there are . . . variables,” he said slowly. “Did Priscilla tell you anything of the nature of Val Con’s injuries?”
Nova blinked. “She had said he was grievously wounded. I had assumed—piloting injuries . . .”
“There were some of those,” Shan allowed. “Acceleration injuries, broken bones gotten by bouncing around in a cockpit built for someone twice his size—in every direction . . .” He sighed and rubbed his forehead; a headache was building, blast it. “You understand, there were no ships, so it fell to Val Con and myself and—another pilot—to take them from the Yxtrang. In the process of acquiring his ship, Val Con was nicked by an Yxtrang pellet carrying a load of nerve poison. A full hit would have killed him more-or-less instantly, as I understand it. The effects of the smaller dose over a longer time are . . . not well documented. Additionally, there are . . . . variant methodologies . . .” He eyed her, wondering if she was swaying or if his vision was wavering. “Sister?”
“You—and Val Con,” Nova repeated, voice shaking, “stole ships from the Yxtrang?”
“Well, they had so many, you see,” he said apologetically. “It was necessary to mount an air strike, so naturally—”
“You could have been killed!” Nova interrupted.
Shan sipped wine. “It was war,” he said, striving for patience. “I would have been killed had I huddled in House with the infirm and the children. And if you think me capable of turning Val Con from necessary action by an appeal to common sense, you vastly overrate my powers of persuasion!”
She stared at him for another heartbeat, then inclined her head, allowing him the point. “Just so. Now—‘variant methodologies’?”
Here it came. He finished his wine and set the glass aside.
“In consultation with Clutch turtles Edger and Sheather, Val Con’s lifemate became convinced that there was more effective healing available—a Clutch healing. I offered myself up as a test subject and found the healing . . . remarkably efficacious. Miri then decided—as Val Con’s lifemate and for Korval—that he and she would undergo this healing. Edger and I labored some hours over Val Con, and left him sleeping easily, his condition much improved from when we had him out of the ’doc—”
“Out of the ’doc?” Nova demanded. Shan sighed. Well, and he had known she wouldn’t like it.
“You dared to dice with the life of Korval Himself? When the medics—when you yourself!—admit that the long-term effects of the poison are unknown, that—”
“Nadelmae Korval decided,” Shan interrupted, somewhat louder than he had meant to do, “for herself, for her lifemate, and for Korval entire.”
“Nadelmae Korval,” Nova spat, “is a Terran-raised mercenary, ignorant of clan and of Code—”
“No, she’s not.”
Nova stared. “Explain.”
He rubbed his forehead. Gods, he was tired. Quickly, he accessed a Healer’s energizing routine. The expected jolt of vigor was more like a faint tremble of nervousness, but it would suffice. For a while.
“Miri and Val Con rejoice in a true lifemating—recall it? I’ll wager cantra to kittens that you’ll find her just as Code-wise as—why, as Val Con! And I’ll further wager that she’s found to fly like a scout. She knew very well what her decision might mean, and she did not make it lightly.”
There was a long silence, while terror, fury, hope, and exasperation warred behind Nova’s eyes. Finally, she sighed.
“I will see our brother.”
Shan shook his head. “That would not be wise. We left him sleeping, in a state . . . somewhat akin to trance. He will wake himself, when he is ready.”
“I will see him,” she repeated, with barely leashed violence. “If he is entranced, he will not heed me, and I will have had some ease of heart.” Her eyes glinted. “Surely, I am allowed kin-right?”
Surely, she was allowed kin-right, Shan thought, and truth told, it would ease his own heart to know that Val Con still slept sweetly, Healed and removed from all danger.
“Very well,” he said. “But a glance, only, and then I will need to seek my own bed.”
Nova inclined her head and turned toward the door.
***
“LADY YOS’PHELIUM?” The med tech scrambled to her feet. She was showing a little white around the eye, for which Miri blamed her not at all, and doing pretty good—after the first, incredulous gape—about not staring at the patients. Miri inclined her head, trying for a sort of matter-of-fact haughtiness.
“These, my oathsworn,” she said, choosing the High Liaden mode of employer to employee—which was close enough to true, considering that she was blood-and-genes of Erob, “require optimization. They have been underfed of late, and are doubtless in need of supplements. Also, the tattoo work will be removed. The med techs attached to the mercenary unit have an erasure program. Pray contact them and request its transmittal, in the name of Captain Robertson.”
The tech swallowed, hard, and managed a fairly credible bow of acquiescence.
“It shall be done.” She looked up—at Nelirikk, at Hazenthull, at Diglon—and down—at Shadia, and back to Miri. “Forgive me, but one is not able in the language of the—of the subjects. One would forestall an . . . unfortunate situation, my lady.”
“I understand,” Miri assured her, and moved a hand, bringing both Nelirikk and Shadia to the tech’s attention. “Scout Lieutenant Shadia Ne’Zame, and my aide, Lieutenant Nelirikk Explorer, will stay here to assist you in any way required.”
The tech actually looked relieved to hear it, which probably showed how little experience she had with scouts, bowed again and moved over to the first ’doc of the three in the infirmary.
“If the . . . elder soldier . . . will come forward?”
Nelirikk translated it in terms of an order and Diglon Rifle stepped smartly forward.
Miri exchanged a look with Shadia, who grinned and gave her a Terran thumbs-up. “We have everything under control, Captain Redhead.”
“Why don’t that make me feel better?” Miri asked, rhetorically, and went away to find Emrith Tiazan, to tell her what was going on in her medical center.
***
MIRI HAD GONE to the med center to attend the needs of yos’Phelium’s newest dependents, leaving Val Con alone with his father.
When he was a boy, he had used to dream of this meeting: His father would arrive unannounced, and swing him up into strong arms; his father would be sitting at his bedside one morning when he woke; he would be called from his studies to attend Uncle Er Thom in his office, and his father would be waiting for him there . . .
Child-dreams, which had nothing to do with this moment, in which he, grown and lifemated, stood in a garden far away from home, in the presence of a stranger, who smiled at him faintly and said, “Well.”
In appearance, Val Con thought, one’s father was the antithesis of one’s foster-father. Nor had the holos of Daav in his youth prepared one, entirely, for the elder scout standing, serene and patient, before him in the pre-dawn garden. The holos had been of a man at the height of his powers, whip-thin and sharp-featured; his plentiful dark hair confined into a tail; black eyes looking boldly out of the image.
This man had thickened a little beyond slenderness; his hair more gray than brown, cut close to the head in a manner subtly Terran. His face, never beautiful, even in youth, had yet a certain austere charm, startlingly like Uncle Er Thom; and the black eyes assessed one with all of a scout’s directness.
And, Val Con thought suddenly, he has deliberately engineered this pause to allow me time to study him. Almost, he grinned in welcome of this oldest of scout tricks.
Daav raised an eyebrow. “You had some pointed questions to ask me, I believe?”
“The most pointed I had asked: What have you been about all these years?” While I waited for you, and Uncle Er Thom did . . .
Daav’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Surely I made an entry in the Diaries? Yes, I�
��m certain of it. I distinctly recall your presence at the event—there’s a blot on the page, where you jostled the pen.”
And the other blots, thought Val Con, who knew the page well, are tearstains.
“However,” said Daav, “since the substance of the entry appears to have slipped your mind—I was about the Balancing of my lifemate’s death.”
“But,” Val Con heard himself, with no little astonishment, state, “your lifemate is not dead.”
Daav appeared to experience no corresponding astonishment upon hearing this assertion. He merely raised a hand; the old silver puzzle-ring flashing like a zag of lightning ’round his finger.
“It was some time before that became clear to me,” he said. “Our arrangement had been . . . flawed. And—forgive me—I had seen her die. It was far more reasonable to think I had gone mad from grief than to believe I was truly hearing her voice.” He lowered his hand.
“In any case, since the assassin—say, rather, the one who had employed the assassin—so earnestly wished me to look to Terra for my villain, I could scarcely do less than accommodate him.”
“Though perhaps,” Val Con murmured, “not in quite the way he had wished.”
“Well, what would you? Aelliana would never have wanted me to start a war in her name—even had it been absolutely certain that her death was called by Terra. Which it was by no means. The Code quite clearly states that, in matters of life-Balance, the wishes of the Balancer are secondary to the wishes honorably imputed to his dead.” He lifted his shoulders in a common Terran shrug.
“My lady would have said that Terra struck because it was afraid, and that fear arises from ignorance. So, I have been teaching cultural genetics. To Terrans.”
“Ah,” Val Con said softly.
“Ah, indeed,” his father returned. He tipped his head. “Your lady captain speaks common Yxtrang very like a scout—or perhaps she speaks it like the scout.”
“I really ought to teach Nelirikk my personal name,” Val Con said, musingly. He moved his shoulders, not a shrug. “I concede that the Common Troop had not been among Miri’s languages before—recent events.”
